


Coda

by GSJwrites



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 23:29:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GSJwrites/pseuds/GSJwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt Hummel turned his back on a successful career as an influential wine critic to marry Blaine Anderson, the bright, artistic and occasionally vexing owner of a Sonoma winery. Nearly a year into their marriage, they both find themselves struggling with the side effects of success. The sequel to Sotto Voce.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One year ago, on Christmas Eve 2012, I posted the first chapter of Sotto Voce, a Klaine fanfic set in the business and culture of California's wine country. I didn't expect it to take up close to eight months of my life or find much of an audience. It was just something I wanted to write.
> 
> I was flabbergasted and grateful at the response to it, but when it concluded in June, I expected to be done with it. Sequels aren't generally my cup of tea, I said. No sequels, I said.
> 
> Apparently, I lied.
> 
> I did promise to write a ficlet to answer the question that kept finding its way into my inbox: What happened to that bottle? I planned to write it for Sotto Voce's anniversary. But a funny thing happened on the way to the one-shot. 
> 
> I couldn't make it work, no matter how hard I tried. Then I wrote a short Klaine Advent Challenge prompt ("Dirt") set in the Sotto Voce verse. The next thing I knew, I had a sequel on my hands. 
> 
> And I felt like I was home again. 
> 
> My thanks to Coda's lovely and supportive collaborators: iconicklaine, who always sees the big picture, and Axe, who has made the sometimes awkward process beta-ing for someone new feel like a cozy, overstuffed chair. Thanks, ladies. I couldn't do it without you.
> 
> Like Sotto Voce, Coda will post weekly as a work in progress.

 

## co·da

  _noun_  \ˈkō-də\

 

 

 

: an ending part of a piece of music or a work of literature or drama that is separate from the earlier parts

: something that ends and completes something else

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Step by step, window by window, Kurt witnessed a dizzying array of glittery sameness, all destined for rejection.

The gilded glass grapes? Nope.

The tiny decorative wine bottles? Absolutely not.

The copper corkscrews? A bit different, perhaps, but they wouldn't pass the Blaine test.

It stunned Kurt to learn that Rhapsody had never been decorated for the holidays. Blaine Anderson, artisan winemaker and resident Grinch, had never bothered to put up a tree, and couldn't fathom a reason why he should string lights that only he and the dog would see. And even now that he was married, he had proven himself a hard sell for holiday cheer.

A vineyard-themed tree was a natural, Kurt had reasoned, and strands of white lights in the vines closest to the residence would set it off beautifully. But Blaine had been adamant: "If you're going to go out and buy Christmas decorations, please for god's sake don't turn our home into a winery gift shop."

Yet every store on the Sonoma Square offered exactly that: ornaments that were more vacation souvenir than holiday bauble. The selections on the Napa side were no different, with the exception of the inflated price tags.

"This is hopeless," Kurt muttered, drawing an end to a fruitless afternoon of strolling the sunny shopping district.

"There's always Target," Santana said, her eyebrows arched with wicked inference. "You can buy your balls there."

He shot her a sideways glance, caught her crooked smile and narrowed his eyes just enough to say, _I'm on to you, Santana Lopez, and you're a pain in the ass, but I kind of love you anyway._

"Yeah, that's not happening, is it?" she laughed, wrapping her arm around his elbow. "Then how about you buy me a drink, and you can tell me all about your husband's sexual quirks."

Kurt stopped dead in his tracks, turned his head and shot Santana a glare.

"What? A girl can't be curious?"

Kurt took a breath, shutting his eyes momentarily.

"Why do I tolerate you?"

"Because you _love_ me. I'm the yin to your yang, Hummel, your breath of deliciously polluted city air in the middle of the bean patch."

He began walking again, a slight smile cresting his face, steering her toward the Girl and the Fig, their favorite watering hole.

The room was half full of stragglers from lunch, and Santana snagged the corner couch in the bar, waving the bartender over with a flourish.

"This must be a day for good dish if you two are tucked away back here," said Patty, giving Kurt a hug. "Will it be wine or wine?"

"Not wine," Kurt said. "Mojito."

"Mojito? _You?_ " As tender of the restaurant’s bar and keeper of secrets, Patty knew Kurt’s poison, and it wasn’t rum laced with lime and mint.

"It's warm out and you can only drink so much Syrah," Kurt said. Santana nodded, the universal sign for "Make it two."

"You know, it'd be nice to add some new labels to the wine list," Patty said, stalling. "Maybe like that wine of yours that Blaine refuses to sell."

" _Appoggiatura_ ," Kurt mumbled, catching Santana's attention.

"Yeah, the one no one can pronounce. You tell your man to change its name and sell us a few cases, okay?"

"You betcha," he said, nodding slowly, to no one in particular. What Santana, and Patty, and the dozens of spirits distributors who had reached out to Blaine after hearing rumors of a new wine, a vintage that might even surpass the celebrated _Sotto Voce_ , was that there was no way Blaine would market that wine. Because selling _Appoggiatura_ would be like cutting off a corner of his heart.

Patty left to make their cocktails, and Kurt shook his head almost imperceptibly.

"He still won't sell it?"

"Nope."

"Didn't he make enough?"

"It was a small run, but that would just drive up the price. He's got enough of it to sell, if he wanted."

"What gives?" Santana said. "I've had it. It's good shit. It needs to be entered in your _Taste_ Challenge next year."

"It's not my _Taste_ Challenge, Santana. I dropped out."

"Not going back?"

"Nope. It would just consume my life — just like it has the past two years. And Blaine can't compete if I'm involved."

"He won't anyway."

"True, but at least now he doesn't have an excuse — other than he still hates it."

"So what gives?" Santana said. "Trouble in paradise?"

"There's no trouble in paradise."

"And that's why you have me doing circles around the Square, rejecting Christmas ornaments before your husband does it for you?"

"He's picky."

"He's a pain. Don't get me wrong. That surly man of yours is good people. The best. But when he feels like it, he's a complete pain in the ass. And it's not like you two exactly took your time with the engagement."

Kurt took his drink from Patty's tray before she had a chance to set it down, and took a deep slurp.

"What engagement?"

"Exactly."

Kurt looked Santana square in the eye.

"We're solid. I don't regret marrying Blaine for a second."

Santana was largely right, of course, though Kurt would never acknowledge it. He and Blaine had moved from new couple to shacked up to broken up to reconciled to married in about eight months. It felt like a flash. But it also felt right.

As miserable as he had been without Blaine over the few weeks of their break-up nearly a year ago, Kurt didn't expect to take him back, let alone make a lifelong commitment to him. The differences seemed insurmountable: Kurt would be headed back to his New York home; Blaine was committed to Rhapsody, and facing rapidly increasingly demand for his vintages since winning the inaugural _Taste_ Challenge.

It didn't add up, or make sense. But the moment that Blaine finally took that leap, and delivered that bottle of wine...

_Appoggiatura._

It was the first time Blaine had ever used the word "love" with Kurt, at least to describe anything other than an aged Scotch, or a delivery of new medium toast French Oak barrels, or his damned truck.

But there it was, encased in green glass, 750 ml of love, created solely for Kurt. Created out of love, for love, to put into wine what Blaine hadn't been able to put into words.

Kurt met with Blaine that day on his hotel room patio expecting coffee and closure, and instead found himself drawn back to the man he had planned to say goodbye to, once and for all.

Blaine had struggled for words, had leaned on music terminology to try to explain what was happening in his heart. It was in chemistry and in music where Blaine was his most articulate. And, ultimately, in Kurt's arms.

It took one sentence on the wine's back label for Kurt to know what was in his heart: _For K, my grace note._

He had stared at it for some time, tears building in his eyes, until he set the bottle down, and simply stood up, taking Blaine by the hand. He had led him into the room, then pulled Blaine close, bumping noses and foreheads, breathing him in before touching lips.

They didn't say another word, not until hair had been tousled and shirts unbuttoned and hands began their delicate dance dotting vertebrae down, down, down. Not until then did the slightest hint of a breathy _"Blaine"_ rush from Kurt's lips.

What followed was slow, and careful, delicate as if rebuilding a framework that had been compromised, but never dismantled.

They had spent a good hour simply touching, tracing lines on skin — pads of fingers outlining stressed muscles, pebbled nipples and tiny crows' feet. It wasn't until Kurt had thoroughly mapped Blaine's body with fingers, lips and sighs that he rolled Blaine on to his back and leaned in for a deep, hard kiss.

His tongue prodded and searched, until it elicited a moan from somewhere deep in Blaine's chest.

Blaine's touch was still tenuous and careful, so Kurt had taken charge, clambering down Blaine's body, leading with his mouth, until he reached that sensitive spot where hip met thigh.

_"Kurt."_

With that, Kurt took Blaine into his mouth while reaching up to take Blaine's hands in his.

****

"I don't want to wait," Blaine had said, staring at the ceiling.

"Hmm? About coming back to the house? My reservation here is indefinite. I could check out today, if you want."

"That's a start, but it's not what I meant. You're going to stay, right?"

"Yes," Kurt said. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Good."

Blaine set his coffee aside, and rolled over to face Kurt.

"I know it sound impetuous, and I'm not an impetuous person, but when you know what direction you want your life to take, you just want to get yourself there as fast as possible."

Kurt squinted with confusion, trying to puzzle out Blaine's words.

"Marry me."

"What?" Kurt said.

"I want to marry you. I want Rhapsody to be your home, and I want to marry you."

Within a week, they stood in a courthouse office in the county seat, saying "I do" in front of a judge who was also a Rhapsody wine club subscriber. They'd said nothing about it, and weeks passed before anyone noticed the rings.

Was it rushed? Yes. Would it have been prudent to have waited? Undoubtedly. Did they make a mistake?

_Absolutely not._

And Kurt told himself this, almost every day.

He had given up so much — a career he loved, and a city and pace that fit him like Hugo Boss.

And he didn't care. Not at all.

Not usually.

He had found, without question, his mate. A day didn't go by when Blaine didn't intrigue him, challenge him, inspire him and yes, sometimes vex him, but in the very best ways.

At Blaine's side was precisely where he belonged; this much he knew. And he could work from almost anywhere, whereas Blaine couldn't exactly pick up a 25-acre vineyard and move it to Manhattan.

Kurt had already put in nearly a year on the West Coast before resigning from most of his daily duties at _Taste_ Magazine, not just to marry Blaine Anderson, but to adopt his lifestyle and adjust to life on a working vineyard, learning the wine trade from the soil up, while still keeping a hand in evaluating, critiquing and writing about fine wines. With time, he filtered off the columns entirely, despite _Taste_ publisher Quinn Fabray's repeated requests for more.

He didn't dump his entire career to be with Blaine, and he certainly didn't have to. He walked away because he had the chance to be not just husband, but partner — in the office as well as the bedroom.

Nearly a year had passed since he let the wine world know that he'd exchanged professional title for a lifestyle change and a hyphenated last name — _Hummel-Anderson —_  and he hadn't looked back.

Not really.

And it was a wonderful life, by anyone's assessment: a smart and handsome husband who loved him unconditionally, an exquisite home in the scenic hillsides overlooking the Carneros hills, a wine cellar to die for.

And sex. _Great_ sex. The best sex of his life. On the regular. It wasn't just that they were compatible; they were still very much in honeymoon mode. A year and a half after first getting together, and nearly a year after their marriage, absolutely nothing about their sex life had begun to feel routine.

Yes, when he thought about it, Kurt Hummel had the life a lot of people dreamed of.

It was just, sometimes, he really could use that little hit of adrenaline that he once got daily, running for the subway or juggling appointments with wine promoters clamoring for his attention.

While their relationship was still charged with a sense of newness, the somewhat tempered pace of life in an agricultural zone was something that he wasn't sure he would ever quite fully adapt to.

"Santana, you know what we need?"

"I always know what I need, and I really doubt it's the same as you," she said, clinking their glasses.

"A day in the city. I'm not going to find anything Blaine won't raise hell about here. What do you say you and me head in to San Francisco tomorrow for some retail therapy?"

"Again? Won't your man take you shopping?"

"Not unless we're shopping for new filtration pumps."

"Killjoy."

"Tell me about it. Besides, he's still getting everything put away and sorted out for winter. With this weather, he's not about to leave the vineyard."

"That's why you _hire people_ , Kurt."

"He got Diego replaced, finally. But it's just taking a while, and you know how he is."

"Micro-manager."

"He likes to have a hand in everything."

"He can't let go."

"He doesn't run it like a big vineyard."

"But it's getting bigger, Kurt, and there's more demand. And there's more demand f _or him_."

"And that's a topic you're wise to stay away from with him, Santana. He's not interested."

Kurt was cut off by the sound of Elton John blasting from his phone — _The Bitch is Back_.

"Well, what do you know?" Santana said with a smirk, leaning back into the couch.

****


	2. Chapter 2

Kurt carefully maneuvered around the soft sand at the front gate of Rhapsody, remembering all too well his first visit to the vineyard, and how his tiny rental car had become stuck in what he now not so lovingly referred to as _The Pit of Doom_.

Pouring gravel near the gate, Blaine tried to improve Kurt's chances of successfully navigating the treacherous entrance. And when they decided to purchase a car together, he wanted to make sure it could handle the rigors of country driving.

Blaine had suggested a truck. Kurt turned up his nose at the idea and mentioned something about cold days in the underworld.

Blaine's ancient International Scout was more than enough truck for the two of them, Kurt said. A car that they could use for evenings out or weekends away or just times when they didn't want to be blown to bits in the oversized, roofless jeep was more in line with his priorities. And before Blaine could utter the initials S, U and V, Kurt put the kibosh to it by refusing to “look like a carpool mom on her way to soccer practice."

They settled on an Audi A6 Quattro — enough luxury to keep Kurt happy, with a proven all-wheel-drive system to satisfy Blaine, who rarely drove it.

To Kurt, it was six cylinders of heaven. He hadn't driven a car of his own since high school, and the German sedan served as his personal bubble where he could tune out the world and go from farm to central city in about an hour, traffic and the California Highway Patrol willing.

It was his heads-up-display'd, satellite-radio'd, British-accented navigation system'd slice of civilization that could eat that damned dirt road for lunch.

He knew that Blaine would be off in the vineyard somewhere and decided to keep driving past the house in search of him. The weather had not yet recognized the date on the calendar, and a lingering warm spell simmered over Sonoma — cool enough to wrap up the last of the late season harvests, but too warm for the vines to finally settle into hibernation, their dormant tendrils awaiting a winter prune.

It was just autumn _enough_ that the foliage had turned colors in vineyards across the region, and the vines in the lower, shaded sections of Rhapsody were starting to drop their leaves. But as Kurt drove deeper into the vineyard and higher up the hill, the leaves were just starting their shift from green to yellow to brown.

He could also see small pockets of fiery reds and vibrant orange foliage, but he had learned not to wax poetic about the colorful metamorphosis, as all it meant to Blaine was more work fertilizing vines that were showing colorful signs of needing nutrients. In the world of viticulture, Kurt had learned, ugly was the new pretty.

At the vineyard's most remote edge, just beyond the vines, Kurt could see Blaine alone, swinging a heavy-handled pickaxe into the earth.

With the rainy months ahead, Blaine had decided to take advantage of the unseasonably warm weather to prepare the small, rocky corner for planting.

Only the rocks were winning.

Kurt pulled up in time to see his husband, sweaty and swearing with every swing of the axe, declare war on the dry hillside.

_"Fuck!"_

Kurt just stood back and smirked, flinching slightly with each exclamation.

"Damn it to hell, goddamn fucking dirt..."

"Um, Blaine? Aren't there _machines_ to do that sort of work?" Kurt asked, handing him a water bottle from the car.

Blaine's fleeting acknowledgement was little more than a glare, then a grudging acceptance.

"The Bobcat needs repair, and this wouldn't be such a big deal if it wasn't for these god—"

"Yes, yes, I understand. The 'goddamn fucking rocks.’ Keep that language up and you're going to end up right at the top of the naughty list, mister," Kurt said smugly.

Blaine rolled his eyes and took a swig from the bottle. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his t-shirt and let the pickaxe fall to the ground. "Real funny. You try it for awhile and we'll see how well you abide by the rules of etiquette."

"Not necessary," Kurt said. "You know I have absolutely no interest in getting dirty."

Blaine peered over the water bottle and grinned.

"Now look who's going on the naughty list."

"What? How?"

Blaine stepped in close, reaching around Kurt's waist and nuzzling at his jawline, going to great pains to share a smudge of gritty earth from cheek to neck.

"You and I both know you're lying," he murmured. "I have it on good authority that you happen to _love_ getting dirty."

"You're going to get me filthy," Kurt said, angling his face for a kiss.

"That's what showers are for," Blaine responded, licking at Kurt's lip until he was granted entrance for a deep, grimy kiss. Then he lingered for a moment, dusting baby kisses across Kurt's lips and finally to the tip of his nose before pulling back.

"Have fun with Santana today? Is our home about to look like Macy's Santaland?"

"Alas, there's no Macy's here. My only options were the _decorations-that-shall-not-be-named_."

"Ah. No luck, then. Too bad," Blaine said, trying to hide his mirth behind a petulant pout.

"No luck, my ass. This has the feel of a set-up."

Blaine let go of Kurt and began collecting his tools, clearly done for the day.

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," he said, sauntering toward the car.

"Don't think for a minute I came home entirely empty-handed," Kurt said. "I got strings of little white lights for the vines near the house."

Blaine grimaced. Kurt ignored him.

"And the hardware store had fresh evergreen garland; so the trunk's loaded. And don't think for a second you're putting those dirty tools in my car."

Blaine flipped the heavy tool axe-side up as a brace to lean against.

"Oh, don't give me that look. You carried it up here, you can carry it back down, too."

"What about the tree?"

"We'll pick that out, together — in your truck."

"Tomorrow?"

"I meant to talk to you about that. Santana and I are heading into the city..."

"Of course."

"I would invite you."

"No need."

"But if you get cleaned up, we can go pick out a tree and get some dinner."

"Then it would be in your best interest to drive me to the house," Blaine said, satisfied that he at least could flip Kurt's logic to score a ride down the hill.

****

Normally quick to shower unless otherwise distracted, Blaine gave Kurt little time to make progress on his project. Kurt moved quickly to lace fresh evergreen garland up the bannister and across the fireplace mantle, and found enough time to thread a few strings of tiny white lights along a row of Syrah vines near the house.

 _I really should hire someone to light the house_ , he thought, tucking the idea away when Blaine emerged from the house, tossing his keys to himself.

It was an eventless evening, at least to start. They drove to downtown Napa, where a service club had opened a Christmas tree lot in a mini-mall parking lot.

After nearly an hour of comparing Noble to Douglas to Frasier firs and fielding surprisingly few complaints, Kurt convinced Blaine to purchase a girthy nine-foot-tall Grand Fir. He had wisely reattached the Scout's roof for the evening, allowing a secure base for the sizable pine's transport.

They stayed in Napa for dinner, stopping by Brix, where they shared tamales and soup, but parted ways on the wine-versus-beer discussion. After a day in the field, Blaine was in no mood for wine.

"Santana wants you to call her," Kurt said, peeling away a corn husk. "She says you're avoiding her."

"She knows where I am."

"And Patty asked about _Appoggiatura_ again."

Blaine eyed him over his soup bowl. He'd answered this request enough times.

"I know, " Kurt said, humoring him. "But I promised her I'd ask."

"Kurt, it's your wine. If you want to sell it, sell it."

"You make it sound like I want to get rid of it."

"I didn't mean that."

"I know, and it's sweet, but you and I both know what you have there. And as special as it is to me, word's gotten out..."

"I'm not allowed to make something just for us?"

"Of course you are. But it's a prestige wine, if you ever decide to release some of it."

"Everybody wants something," Blaine said, almost mumbling to himself.

"Hmm?"

"Distributors want a new wine. Santana wants me to head up the Bureau, and some of its members are pressuring me to open up a tasting room..."

"That'll never happen," Kurt interrupted, laughing lightly.

"True. And your former boss wants me back in that damn _Taste_ Challenge."

"What do you want?"

Blaine stirred his soup, watching the drizzle of truffle oil swirl into the butternut squash purée. He smiled to himself.

"I've got what I want."

Kurt bit his lower lip. Blaine may not be the most loquacious man on the planet, but his few words had a way of making Kurt's heart melt.

"What else? There's got to be more."

"There does? Kurt, think about it. This past year I fell in love. I got married. I won that ridiculous contest of yours..."

"Hey — if it wasn't for that contest, we never would have met."

Blaine laughed. "Okay. I'll give you that. And I nearly doubled the size of my vineyard."

"True."

"But I've never had any ambition to be the next Mondavi. Rhapsody is small by design. It's private for a reason."

"So we can skinny dip whenever we want?"

"I'm serious, Kurt," Blaine said, then smiling to himself.

"Okay, fine, that too."

Kurt wore a look of victory, the borderline haughty expression he had whenever he convinced Blaine to lighten up a little.

"I don't want Rhapsody to become some kind of destination, Kurt. It's our home. And yes, I'm glad the business is growing, but I don't ever want it to get so big that it becomes impersonal. That's never what it was meant to be."

Blaine reached across the table, taking Kurt's hand and gently rubbing circles around his knuckles.

"So really, no, there isn't anything I want right now, because so many things I wanted happened so fast, and some things I hadn't even thought about."

"So what you're saying is that you are hopelessly in love with me," Kurt said.

"Yes, hopeless would be a good word for it."

"And you're happy with the condition of the vineyard."

"Except for the rocks, and the condition of the Bobcat, yes."

"But it's no to Santana, and to the Bureau, and to Quinn."

"Something like that, yes," Blaine said.

"Fair enough," Kurt said. "By the way, speaking of Quinn..."

Blaine's thumb suddenly stopped its rhythmic pattern.

"She called today."

Blaine pulled his hand back, picked up his spoon, and returned to stirring his soup in mindless swirls.

"Doesn't she take 'no' for an answer?"

"Um, in a word, no," Kurt said. "But that didn't come up."

Kurt knew he could dance around the subject or dive right in, and neither option was especially palatable. At least, sitting in the middle of a familiar restaurant full of familiar faces, they were unlikely to argue. So he chose Plan B.

"She'd like me to come to New York."

_"What?"_

"Not like that, Blaine. Just for a visit, some time in the city. Shopping and shows, and a little business."

"There it is," Blaine said.

Quinn had made no secret about wanting Blaine back in the Challenge — and Kurt back at work. They had both had consistently turned her down, and Kurt gradually eliminated his responsibilities at _Taste_ Magazine in favor of learning the ropes at Rhapsody.

But it had become increasingly clear that while Kurt was a stellar wine critic, he was not a winemaker. His refined palate could distill the tannins, the acids and the body of wines with little effort. But the winery office and its collection of pipettes, beakers and hydrometers reminded him far too much of the high school chemistry classes he’d desperately tried to avoid.

He was fascinated in the results, of course, but the process was something that eluded him. It was, simply, Blaine's job.

He had found ways to make himself useful, of course.

He had learned and gradually assumed much of the responsibility for the marketing of Rhapsody, though there was little outreach that needed to occur. Most of it was the need to respond to requests for time, product, interviews — the things Blaine would rather avoid and Kurt excelled at.

Blaine did not enjoy his newfound celebrity, but Kurt saw opportunity in it.

He developed a website and started a Rhapsody blog, discussing new vintages and expansion efforts at the small winery.

From there, he branched out to his own online column, in hopes of keeping the Kurt Hummel brand alive even after leaving _Taste_.

But truth be told, it didn't quite feel like a career, and it seemed that Quinn had sensed that.

"Yes, she wants to talk business, but she knows I'm committed to the west coast," Kurt said, taking Blaine's hand back in his. "You're invited, too, you know."

Blaine nodded.

"I'll pass," he said. "You know I'm done with New York."

He glanced down at the table, released a slight sigh and rubbed his temple.

"When exactly is this extravaganza?"

"She'd like to fly me out next week."

"For how long?"

"A week maybe."

Blaine signaled the waiter for the check.

"You should go."

"What?"

"You should go to New York, Kurt. See your friends. Visit Quinn."

Kurt was floored. He didn't necessarily expect a fight over the plan, but he certainly didn't anticipate this simple acceptance, either.

"You don't mind?"

"Am I crazy about it? Not really, but realistically, I think you should go. I think it'd be good for you."

Blaine paid the bill and stood up to go.

"Shall we? There's a tree out there with our name on it."

****

They began the drive back toward Sonoma in relative silence, Kurt looking over to Blaine from time to time. Sitting at a stop light near the county line, Blaine returned the glance.

"What?"

"I just expected... more, I guess," Kurt said.

"More what? A fight? No, Kurt. I'm not going to fight this."

Blaine didn't sound angry or hurt. More than anything, he just sounded a bit resigned to the inevitability of it all.

"Kurt, you think I don't see what's going on here? These trips into the city with Santana? The wagers where if you win, we go to San Francisco for the weekend?"

"It's not just a weekend in the city..."

"Yes, yes. 'A weekend and a blow job.' I know the bet," Blaine chuckled.

"For the record, I think you lose those bets on purpose."

"Over and over," Blaine said.

Kurt leaned his head back against the seat and smiled.

"This isn't the same thing, though. And after last year..."

"You're right. It's not the same thing. Kurt, some time in the city would be good for you. You think I don't see it? You miss it. The pace is slower here, and you're not working the way you used to."

Kurt reached over and touched Blaine's knee.

"You could come with me. You could visit Cooper."

"He was just out here for Thanksgiving, and I'd just be holding you back. There's nothing in New York I want to visit. And I have work to do here — especially if you're leaving me with this holiday mess."

"It won't be a mess, I promise."

Blaine took his right hand off the steering wheel and reached down towards his knee, taking Kurt's hand.

"Just be home for Christmas this year, okay?"

"Okay," Kurt said softly. "You know, for a guy who doesn't want to decorate, you sure do put a lot of stock in the holiday."

****

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read the Klaine Advent drabbles, you may have recognized bits and pieces of "Dirt" in Chapter 2. It's what ultimately kicked my butt into sitting down and revisiting this verse, so I blame Borogroves. (Just kidding, Mimsy!)
> 
> Thanks to iconicklaine, who has a wonderful bird's eye view of this little world, and to randomactsofdouchebaggery, who is quickly learning that commas and I have a love-hate relationship.
> 
> The plan is to be posting on Tuesdays from here on out. Thanks for reading, and happy new year, everybody!


	3. Chapter 3

Santana didn't have much patience for goodbyes. She stood next to the open door of her BMW, drumming her lacquered nails on the roof.

Blaine eyed her with friendly wariness, and ushered Kurt to the city with a kiss on the cheek and a hushed, "Try to be good."  

Moments later, they were off, Santana peeling out from the driveway and leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.

Blaine would have rather have spent a quiet day with his husband. He had little on his calendar, and Kurt would leave for New York in two days. But the alternative — being dragged from gallery to trendy boutique along Fillmore Street to fighting the holiday season crowds outside Macy's on Union Square — appealed to him even less.

And frankly, a day in San Francisco might serve Kurt well — so long as he made it home in one piece.

Blaine soon found himself puttering around the house — cleaning, pacing, pretending to work — focused more on Kurt's trip east than on household chores. He had little doubt that Kurt's former boss had plans to woo him back to work. And Quinn Fabray knew that one way to Kurt's heart was through dinners at top restaurants with world-class wine lists.

He leaned against the kitchen counter and let his mind go blank, looking out the window, down the hill toward the vineyard entrance. A puff of dust suddenly rose from the road.

Kurt and Santana weren't supposed to return until evening, and no crew members were scheduled to work until the following week. He had no deliveries scheduled.

Blaine grabbed his keys and sunglasses, and made quick work of the dirt drive.

Near the entrance, he saw the visitors approaching: a black Mercedes executive coach, the sort used to shepherd small groups on tours of valley wineries.

"Oh no they don't," he muttered to himself, pulling his truck into a modified J-turn, blocking the shuttle's path.

The door of the coach opened and a middle-aged man in black slacks, loafers and a logo'd polo shirt stepped out. Blaine remained seated, folding his arms over the steering wheel.

"Hi there! You're just who we're looking for..."

"Get back in your van, put it in reverse, and get off the property," Blaine said calmly.

"Honestly, we would have called to set this up, but this wasn't planned."

"No doubt," Blaine said. "Rhapsody isn't open for tours."

"Come on. Help a guy out? I know you don't do this normally, but I've got a bus full of VIPs over there who  _insisted_  that I drive them up here. What was I supposed to do?"

"Tell them no," Blaine said. "Show them that sign that says 'private property' as you drive away."

"I swear, if you'll just... just greet them? Maybe let them try one wine? They'll buy cases, I swear. And if they don't, I will."

"You're the same people that were here last week, aren't you?"

"We'll pay you for your trouble."

Blaine had heard enough. He switched off the ignition, set the brake and jumped out of the truck. 

"Thanks, man," the driver said.

"I don't think you understand," Blaine said. "I don't want your money. And I promise you, any greeting I give that van full of tourists won't earn you any tips. It's time for you to leave. Now."

Blaine could hear muffled voices from inside the coach, where the passengers had started to gather around the open door and driver's side window.

_"That's him."_

_"What's the problem?"_

_"He's hot."_

_"What an asshole."_

Blaine grinned.

"Time for you to leave. Tell your group that they can try the  _Mezzo_  and the  _Allegrezza_  at The Girl and The Fig down on the square. 

"And the next time you try to bring a group up here, I'm calling the cops."

****

The day passed in an aggravated blur. Blaine answered emails, then he swore under his breath. He pulled Kurt's suitcase — the big one — out of storage, then he stared at the wall.

He decided to distract himself by running errands. He could use some additional trellis supplies, and that would give him an excuse to clear his head in the warm, open air of the International Scout.

He whistled for the dog, removed the roof and jumped behind the wheel, muttering as he nosed past the front entrance, "I'm going to have to buy a fucking  _security gate_."

Blaine tuned out the stress with winding roads and James Brown, but it didn't help, not much. His mind drifted, and he thought about the past year —  _the past two_ —and the checklist of events and changes that may have added up to  _too much, too fast_.

Santana might harass him about it, but he wasn't comfortable being the public face of Sonoma's wine industry. It's one thing to offer help or even leadership behind the scenes. It's another entirely to be made the poster child — or president — of the local trade association. And Santana had pushed — hard — for just that. Blaine didn't enjoy the recognition he'd earned by winning that wine competition, and now the world was trying to capitalize on it, even if Blaine himself wasn't on board.

Then there was the vineyard, his baby. Sure, he had plans to expand it — eventually. But Rhapsody's sudden rise to fame had forced his hand. His neighbor had tried to cash in on Rhapsody's notoriety and offered the adjoining land up for sale long before Blaine hoped to acquire it. It was a big investment, and the only way to control the cost — and protect his privacy — was to buy it years before he had hoped to.  _This wasn't the plan_ , he thought to himself.

There had been so many adjustments to make, and not just for him. Blaine could see Kurt struggling to accept a pace that maybe, just maybe, wasn't a part of his DNA. He would never be a winemaker, despite his efforts to learn the business, and hadn't quite filled the professional void since leaving  _Taste_.

Blaine couldn't help but wonder if he had pushed too far, too fast.

Kurt had stayed on as wine editor emeritus at  _Taste_  Magazine for another six months after their marriage. Technically, he still held the title.

He had shepherded the second  _Taste_  Challenge to success, written a few columns and traveled — lightly — on behalf of the publication for a few months. Then one evening, as they stood in the kitchen washing dishes, Kurt put the last of the plates in the cupboard, set down his dish towel and announced that he was leaving the magazine, for good.  

"I want to do more  _here_ ," he said. "I want to help you."

Blaine's efforts to teach him winemaking simply hadn't fully connected. Kurt was a master of the product, but the  _process_  was another matter. It was probably too much like chemistry class, he reasoned. And Kurt  _hated_  chemistry class.

"I can help manage the business end, and that would free you up to spend more time actually making wine," he had told Blaine. "And then I'll drink it."

Kurt had transitioned without complaint, but Blaine could see it, and sense it. Sometimes, Kurt just had to  _get out of the house_. Blaine could already see his husband of less than a year getting bound and stifled by country living.

And what had Blaine given up in the deal?  _Not much_ , he thought to himself, hitting the gas and turning up the truck's stereo.

Blaine could feel his blood pressure rise and his attention shrink as he navigated the last of Sonoma's winding roads before merging on to the open span of highway north. 

****

Laughing and juggling shopping bags, Santana and Kurt stumbled through the door around 8 p.m.

"Husband!" Kurt bellowed.

"Ven aqui, chaparro!"  Santana shouted, earning a cocked eyebrow from Kurt.

"I'm warning you now, Santana. One of these days, I'm going to learn Spanish."

Blaine rounded the corner from the kitchen, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder.

"Sounds like you two had fun," he said. "Coffee? Dinner?  _Ibuprofen?_ "

Kurt dropped his bags in the foyer and sauntered up to Blaine. "Coffee, tea or me?" he giggled, awkwardly trying to plant a kiss on Blaine's cheek, but grazing it instead when he misjudged the distance between them.

"Oh, please," Santana said. "I'll have you know your man here dragged me all over the city today."

"I'll bet. It looks like we have enough to decorate the entire square."

"No, but when you're starting from scratch and have a tree  _that_ size, it's going to take some raw materials," Kurt said. "Want to see?"

Kurt fetched the bags and began unpacking ornament boxes and bubble-wrapped trinkets while Santana glanced down at her phone, already bored.

"I've got to go," she said. "You two have fun. And Blaine, I'm putting you on the Bureau ballot. Deal with it."

"But..."

Before he could even begin to articulate his case, Santana breezed back out of the house and to her car. She wasn't about to give Blaine a chance to say no.

He looked at Kurt, ruffled, and shook his head.

"You know I'm going to kill her," Blaine said, his voice picking up tempo and strain with each syllable. "I'm going to kill her, and I'm going to hide the body, and you're not going to say anything or testify against me because  _I'm your husband_."

Kurt pursed his lips, stifling the smile that was fighting to break out, and nodded.

Blaine closed his eyes and exhaled loudly. "I'm gonna kill her."

"Of course you are. We all are, or swear we will at one point or another."

Kurt took his hand.

"Bad day?"

"Oh this?" Blaine said, waving his hand at the front door, Vanna White-style, "This is just dessert."

"It's not that much responsibility, is it? The Bureau position is just a figurehead. I mean a speech or two? Greeting the occasional VIP?" Kurt tried to make it sound painless, mundane, but the look on Blaine's face was etched in disgust.

"We had another tour group stop by today."

"Oh no."

"Same company as the one three days ago."

"Same result?"

"MmmHmm."

"Oh shit."

"It doesn't matter if I call and talk to management, or write letters, or point out the  _Private Property_ sign. They just keep coming back. I'm going to have to install a security gate if this keeps up.

Kurt pulled behind Blaine, kissed his temple, and then brought his hands to his husband's shoulders, slowly kneading the tension knots along the top of his spine.

"And someone called today wondering if they could book a wedding reception. I mean,  _the balls..._ "

Kurt dragged his thumbs in slow, deep concentric circles at the base of Blaine's neck, occasionally dotting his shoulder with a breath of a kiss.

"You're a local celebrity. It'll die down."

"I was so worked up, I nearly missed a curve on the road to Santa Rosa today."

Kurt's hands jolted to an abrupt halt.

"What? Were you in an accident? Are you okay?"

"No, no. I corrected in time. But there was a cop on the other side of the road," Blaine said.

"Oh no."

"He let me off with a verbal warning when he recognized me."

"See?" Kurt said. "The benefits of celebrity."

"I don't want that, Kurt. In fact, I seem to remember saying something to that effect nearly two years ago. If the price of selling more wine is our privacy, then I don't need to sell more wine."

"Sssshhh. It's okay," Kurt said softly. "It'll settle down. I promise."

"Sure."

"Hey, you want to see what I got you today?"

"I'm breathless with anticipation," Blaine said.

"Hey, don't blame the husband," Kurt said, giving Blaine a quick kiss before settling among the bags, patting a spot on the floor beside him. "Come here."

He pulled a couple of large shopping bags in front of him.

The first bag contained vintage ornaments of gold and burgundy glass that Kurt had found in a small boutique. A splash of color to set the tone, he said — the deep red the color of fine wine, the shimmery gold reminiscent of the gilded letters on the labels of Rhapsody wines. 

Blaine nodded, and peeked into another sack, this one containing wide-gauge wired netting, a variegated swath of gold, peach and crimson. He furrowed his brow.

"Just trust me," Kurt said, "and hand me  _that_  bag."

Blaine mouthed, "okay," and did as he was told, handing Kurt an oversized shopping bag filled with at least a dozen symmetrical boxes. "Where are these from?" he asked.

"Nope. It's a surprise." Kurt said, pulling box after box from the bag, finally handing one to Blaine. "Go ahead."

He opened the simple black box to tissue paper emblazoned with the logo of the San Francisco Symphony store. He unfolded it to find a small wooden ornament, a miniature mandolin.

"Forgive me. I shopped at a gift store," Kurt said, shrugging.

The next box held a tiny flute. The next, a drum set. Then tympani, a harp, an oboe. By the time he had opened the boxes, Blaine nearly had a miniature orchestra of his own.

"One more," Kurt said, stretching to reach for a small, dark blue, embossed bag. The enclosed leather-wrapped box looked like it was from a jewelry store. Blaine looked at Kurt quizzically before he opened it silently, his jaw going slack and his eyes hazy in the moment of recognition.

"Merry Christmas," Kurt said.

"How...?"

"I sent them the design over a month ago," Kurt said. "You like it?"

"Kurt. ..." Blaine looked up to meet Kurt's eyes, then looked down again at the box. He pulled the hand-crafted bauble from its satin nest and carefully turned it over in his hand.

The artist had cast a perfect three-dimensional recreation of Rhapsody's logo, the Claddagh made from two inverted treble clefs, in 14-karat gold. 

"You've been planning this for a while, haven't you?"

Kurt simply smiled.

"It's perfect."

Hours later, Blaine stood back to take in the tree that he had finally been persuaded to help decorate.

_Not bad._

Kurt had outdone himself with the tree — an old-fashioned, well-coordinated nod to Rhapsody, without the kitsch of wine country gift store decorations. There was not a grape, nor glass nor bottle to be found, yet the tree was a crystal clear reflection of its home.

"It's beautiful," Blaine said. "And you spent a fortune."

"Yes. Yes, I did," Kurt said, adjusting an ornament so the light hit it, just so. He stood back, Proud of himself. "Will you ever question my ideas again?" 

"Absolutely," Blaine said, leaning in for a kiss. " _Always_."

"I told you I'd get this done before I left for New York."

Blaine waited a beat to answer. "That you did," he said, suddenly sounding like he had again lost his enthusiasm for the effort.

Kurt could hear the stress creep back into his voice. The distraction of tree decorating had run its course.

"What's going on in there?" he asked, brushing some stray hair off of Blaine's forehead. 

"It looks beautiful," Blaine said, staring at the tree.

"You said that already. Now, what are you really thinking about?"

"Hmm?"

"Come here," Kurt said, taking Blaine by the hand and leading him to the couch. He sat close and rested his head against Blaine's shoulder.

"I know you've had a  _day_. But I also know this voice. My 'Brooding Blaine' is back. And don't get me wrong, Brooding Blaine's hot, but it also makes me worry. What's wrong?"

Blaine sighed and kept his eye on the tree, finally leaning his head back against the back of the couch and looking up at the ceiling.

Minutes passed before he spoke.

"Kurt, are you happy?"

****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks as always to iconicklaine, who has a unique knack for highlighting the problems in your work without making you feel like you have problems at all, and to randomactsofdouchebaggery, who has an equally precise-but-gentle hand at beta'ing. Much appreciated, ladies. It was a rough week.


	4. Chapter 4

"Are you packed?"

Blaine leaned against the bedroom doorframe, silent and unnoticed, while Kurt inspected the contents of the black hard-side suitcase. The finished product was the result of a methodical process, born of years of extended business travel and a reverence for the care of a pricey wardrobe. 

Kurt had a system: socks rolled into shoes; tissue-protected ties strung on the bar of travel coat hangers; dress shirts and blazer individually fitted inside the thin plastic protective cover of dry cleaners' hanging bags, saved especially for travel. 

"Nearly done," Kurt responded without looking up. "I just need to set aside some sundries."

Blaine moved from his post  at the door to the bed, closing the suitcase and snapping it shut.

"Save it for your carry on," he said, moving the luggage by the door. Kurt followed, trying to set one last pair of socks in the case.

Blaine took them from Kurt's hand and set them aside. Then he turned, reaching out and cradling Kurt's hips with his hands, leaning in for a kiss.

"You're done packing now."

Blaine kissed him again, firmer this time, breaching Kurt's lips with an insistent tongue.

"I guess I am," Kurt murmured, rolling his head back as Blaine began placing a trail of kisses along his jaw, down his neck, settling into a familiar, favorite spot near its base.

He savored the skin and the moment, lingering in a kiss that soon became something more — a nip, a suck, a bite, a laving of tongue to neck.

Blaine pushed forward, pinning Kurt firmly against the wall. He took Kurt's hands in his, raising them alongside his head, pressing him in, and then pressing some more.

His mouth stayed focused on that spot, that little space above the clavicle he sometimes thought of as his lips' second home. He folded the rest of his body into Kurt's — a deep compression of chests, a tangle of legs.

Kurt closed his eyes and leaned his head back to rest against the wall, dropping his jaw as he exhaled Blaine's name — an exclamation, a question, an increasingly urgent request, slipping the name off his tongue in hushed tones.

" _Blaine_." 

With a final, lingering kiss to Kurt's neck, Blaine pushed back, just enough to release Kurt's hands and trace a fingertip path along his face, past his shoulders, to his chest, his waist, to the hem of his sweater. He reached underneath, lifting both it and an undershirt up and over Kurt's head in one pass, and dropping them to the floor.

He reached down again, hurriedly unbuckling Kurt's belt, unsnapping the button, nimbly dragging the zipper down.

"Blaine?"

"Let me..." Blaine murmured into Kurt's ear, starting a fresh path of kisses down the other side of his neck and chest as he lowered himself to his knees. 

" _Let me_ ," he said again, his voice hoarse, his face pressed into the dusting of auburn hair below Kurt's belly.

"Blaine... Okay,  _yes_."

Blaine hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Kurt's slacks and pulled them down around his knees. He buried his face into the front seams of Kurt's strained black briefs, that exasperating pair with a great pouch but no fly.

"Fucking 2(X)IST," Blaine mumbled, yanking them down Kurt's legs.

He grasped Kurt's hips, holding them still, sinking his thumbs solidly into the joints. He breathed Kurt in as he nosed along the flushed cock, repeating the path with his tongue. He traced the prominent vein along the shaft, then circled the head. He tongued and teased, pulling gravelly moans from somewhere deep in Kurt's chest.

"Blaine... aaah. Would you please just suck me already?"

With that, Blaine began a forceful, rhythmic suckling of the head, never fully taking Kurt in his mouth.

"Shit, Blaine, please..."

Blaine grinned around Kurt's cock, and finally took him fully in, grabbing at Kurt's ass to drive him deeper into his throat, then pulling off, and starting anew. He pulled off again, and ran his tongue down the shaft to Kurt's balls, sucking one, then the other, into his mouth.

"Keep that up and I'm going to lose it," Kurt said, his words breathy.

Blaine kissed along his cock and groaned.

"Not yet."

With a kiss to the tip, he pulled at Kurt's hips, then guided him around to face the wall. With a hand on either cheek, he settled in.

Kurt caught his breath as Blaine's tongue began to circle his hole, testing, prodding and teasing until he could firmly pulse his tongue beyond the tight ring.

The room was quiet but for the gasps and the hushed sighs of pleasure as Blaine angled his tongue forcefully, reaching just a little deeper with each thrust. He moaned into it, the vibrations sending shivers of tension up Kurt's spine.

Kurt began to reach for his cock, to stroke himself through it, but Blaine slapped his hand away and pulled out, biting at Kurt's ass.

"Bed," Blaine said.

"Shoes, Blaine. My pants."

Kurt awkwardly turned and stood before him, flushed and naked but for the pants now pooled around his shoes.

"Help."

It was a pathetic and oddly hot sight, Blaine thought to himself. In a moment of inspiration, he rose to his feet and pulled Kurt close, reaching around his thighs and hoisting him up, pants and all, stumbling to the bed.

It wasn't graceful, but it was effective.

"Mmm. Like I'm being carried across the threshold," Kurt said, just as he landed with a thud on the mattress.

"No thresholds," Blaine said, setting himself to the task of removing Kurt's shoes, socks and slacks. "Better?" he asked, unbuttoning his shirt and kicking off his loafers.

"Mmm. Much," Kurt said, almost in a hum, as he began backing himself up the mattress.

Blaine caught his eye, locking in, and shook his head No. 

"All fours, right here," he said, patting the foot of the bed and stepping to the nightstand, where he fumbled until he found a near-empty bottle of lube.

"Bossy," Kurt said, arching his brow. He turned over and rose to his hands and knees. "Fine, then."

His shirt open and his jeans unbuttoned enough to ease the tension on his hard cock, Blaine stepped back and reached around Kurt's waist, drawing him closer to the mattress' edge. He poured some of the lube on to his fingers, rolling them together for a moment, then ran one finger down Kurt's crack, circling his hole.

"More?" he asked, pushing his index finger inside.

Kurt groaned. One finger was not nearly enough. 

"Yes."

Blaine added another, and as Kurt began to push back, another still. He leaned over Kurt's back to whisper gruffly in his ear. "Ready?"

" _Yes_."

Blaine pushed at his jeans and briefs with his free hand, then kicked them to the wall. He pulled his hand from Kurt and reached for the lube one last time, squeezing a dollop on his hand before stroking himself roughly.

Since their marriage, they'd fallen out of the habit of regularly using condoms, and Blaine was in no mood to bother with one at the moment. He took little time and less caution to line up and slide in in a single, slow thrust. He paused there only briefly, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply as if to collect himself. He pulled back, nearly out, then slammed back into Kurt.

After that, Blaine drove fierce and fast, tightening his grip on Kurt's hips with each thrust.

Kurt gasped at each pass, his breathing matching Blaine's torrid rhythm. Blaine didn't slow. He kept a sprinter's pace with a marathoner's stamina, never pausing or shifting gears or giving the slightest indication that it may be nearing its conclusion.

Panting roughly, Kurt struggled to find his voice. He balled his fists tight against the mattress and finally cried out, arching his spine and throwing his head back, a guttural "aaawwrrrgh" that spoke volumes.

"Shit!" Blaine spat out.

"Blaine?"

"Ugh..."

"Blaine, I'm here, too," Kurt said quietly. "Please, slow down. Please."

Blaine stopped dead, fully sheathed in Kurt, panting and silent, lowering his chin to Kurt's spine.

"I just need a moment," Kurt said. 

Blaine wrapped his arm around Kurt's chest, burying his face in Kurt's shoulder.

"Oh god, Kurt. I'm sorry..."

"Don't stop. I don't want you to stop. Just... just maybe a little slower."

Blaine bit back a tremulous breath, and began to pull out.

"No, Blaine, really. Don't stop."

"Can you turn over?"

Kurt nodded.

"Yeah, yes."

Kurt turned on to his back, caressing Blaine's chest, pushing at his shirt until Blaine stripped it off in a single, fluid motion. He kneeled in front of Kurt, motionless and silent, willing him to take the lead, a signal acknowledged with a slow blink, a half-nod and hips raised in invitation. 

Blaine repositioned himself, making room for Kurt to wrap his right leg around Blaine's waist, then raise his left foot to rest on Blaine's shoulder.

"Pillow?" Blaine asked, his voice sounding shaky and uncertain. He reached for a bolster and placed it beneath Kurt's hips. "Better?"

Kurt closed his eyes and exhaled. "Much."

Blaine cupped Kurt's jaw in his hand, bringing them nose-to-nose. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

He pained himself to be gentle after that, pushing in slowly, carefully, asking Kurt for permission with words and looks and lingering touches. He let Kurt control the tempo working a slow grind, methodical approximations of figure eights as he lost himself to the aching tug pulling at his abdomen.

He huffed in frustration. "I wanted you to come first," he said, shaking his head. He reached between them, grabbing for Kurt's cock, when Kurt laced their hands together and smiled.

"Let me," he said.

****

They hit the road to San Francisco shortly after dawn the next morning, Blaine behind the wheel of Kurt's car, hoping to beat the early morning commute traffic.

Kurt sat passively in the passenger seat, scarcely awake, clutching a travel mug of coffee to his chest.

"Should we talk about last night?" he asked, looking up from his cup.

"Hmm?"

"Last night, Blaine. I'm not complaining, but what was that? That wasn't like you."

Blaine kept his eyes fixed on the highway.

"I'm covered in bruises. Did you see the hickey on my neck? It's a good thing I brought scarves."

"Something to remember me by while you're away?" Blaine said, feebly attempting humor.

"We're not in high school, Blaine. And I have meetings back there. Look, I even have one  _on my jaw_ ," he said, pointing to a soft, mottled purple spot near the base of his ear. 

"I'm sorry," Blaine mumbled.

"This is not going to be a comfortable flight."

"You could have stopped me."

"I did, when I needed to. And believe me, I am not complaining that I married a man with a healthy libido. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed most of it. I would have enjoyed it even more if I didn't have to have my butt firmly planted to an airline seat for six hours the following day."

"I'm sorry," Blaine repeated.

"It's not that it happened, okay? It's that it was so  _unexpected_ , so out of the blue. I know something's wrong, Blaine. You've been moody, and worried about things you shouldn't be worried about, and then this on the heels of it was just... confusing."

Kurt reached over the center console.

"Give me your hand."

Blaine turned his eyes to look at him, just briefly, then shifted his focus back to the road.

"I'm driving."

"You can spare a hand for a moment. Come on."

Blaine removed his right hand from the steering wheel, and set it on top of Kurt's. Kurt threaded Blaine's fingers through his own, then pulled them to his lips, kissing each individually.

"You know you can talk to me," he said.

"I know."

"I'm not your adversary."

"I know." Blaine took a breath, a moment. When he spoke again, his voice shook. "I'm so sorry, really. I don't know what... "

"Ssshhh, it's alright. I like it when you get a little bossy in the bedroom from time-to-time. Just give me a heads-up, okay?"

Blaine bit his lip, and nodded.

"Okay."

"Are you going to be alright while I'm gone?"

"MmHmm. Yeah."

****

Kurt broke from the crowd of disembarking passengers as soon as he cleared the jetway in the Virgin America terminal at JFK. His back felt like a rubber band pulled taut; his legs, like cement. He rolled his neck, then his shoulders, then collected his satchel and headed for baggage claim.

His head was bowed to scan his phone for messages — voicemails, emails, texts that had collected over the past several hours — some travel details from Quinn, a query from a winery asking him to lead a pricey tasting event, a check-in from Blaine, an ad for penile enlargement that snuck through a spam filter. 

Kurt chuckled, and stretched again, hoping to dislodge the pain in his lower back.

He cleared the escalator that led to the baggage carousels and the waiting taxi queues and shuttle buses into Manhattan, but he knew to look for his name. Quinn always booked drivers.

His phone chirped with an incoming text just as he saw the sign held by black leather gloves, "K Hummel."

6:28p Quinn: Dinner at 8. ABC Kitchen. 18th and Broadway

Kurt paused for a moment.  _Proving that Manhattan can pull off farm-to-table, Quinn?_

_6:30p Kurt: Next time, tell the driver it's Hummel-Anderson_

6:32p Quinn: Just saving sign space, honey. See you at 8.

Kurt smirked, a crooked grin, and pointed out his suitcase to the driver. His text alert signaled one last time.

6:33p Quinn: Welcome home.

 

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to iconicklaine and randomactsofdouchebaggery for their patience, skill and understanding that I freeze up a bit when I write, to paraphrase S2 Kurt, "those chapters". I need both firm direction and gentle hand-holding at times, and I thank the two of you for doing both.


	5. Chapter 5

Kurt had nearly forgotten the comfortable, almost Zen-like quality of riding cross-town in the back of a New York cab. If you focused  _just so_  on the passing storefronts and streetlights, you could almost tune out the jostle of potholes and rapid-fire lane changes and just go blank for a few minutes. As they slowly navigated Midtown traffic toward the Flatiron, he listened to the drone of the back seat monitor, playing highlights of last night's late-night talk shows and previews of tonight's late news—the anchor breathlessly teasing a story about some questionable financier's latest suspect deal.

It was his first trip back to the city since closing out his apartment nearly two years prior. He could remember supervising as movers taped up the final box and carried it into the service elevator.

And that was that. 

He hadn't looked back. He'd never been sentimental about it. It had been years since the flat could be considered fodder for happy memories, and he spent his last weeks there purging the thought of a soured relationship by planning a yearlong business trip to the West Coast.

A yearlong trip that suddenly became permanent, exchanging subways for starry skies and the adrenaline rush of the metropolis for the contentment of a shoulder to curl into.

He checked his messages. Again. No Blaine.

The handful of trips Kurt had taken since his marriage had always followed a similar pattern. Kurt would land, and a text would be waiting for him.

_Land OK?_

It wasn't much, but Kurt knew it that those six letters were really short form for  _I miss you already. Come home soon._

Blaine could have been busy, Kurt reasoned. He knew that his husband had plans for much of the day, including what could be a lengthy meeting with other local vintners about the state of the small tasting room off the Town Square that was casually operated—and more casually maintained—by the small co-op. 

Kurt considered the place a bit of a dump, and a bit beneath Rhapsody's stature, and Blaine had never been fully engaged in it. But with pressures mounting from the local tourism trade for Rhapsody to open to the public, Blaine was now reconsidering his role in the tiny downtown storefront.

Kurt stared at his blank message screen and decided to take the initiative.

_7:45p Kurt: Landed safely. Off to dinner w/Q. Call you later?_

The speed of the response surprised him. The sparse words did not.

7:47p Blaine: Sure. Busy now. Home by 7

By then, the cab had reached the Flatiron District. Kurt looked at the digital meter and nearly gasped at the amount that he had once taken for granted.

"Long trip for such a short distance, eh?" he said with little acknowledgement from the driver. He swiped a credit card, asked for a receipt, and dashed across the street to dine with a former boss he hadn't seen in nearly a year.

****

Kurt opened the door of the brick showroom-turned-restaurant to a crush of bodies and a decibel level roughly equivalent to that of a jet engine, a once familiar and even welcome dining experience. But after close to two years away — two years of small, hushed restaurants and home-cooked dinners on the veranda — it all felt just a little... alien. He checked his overcoat and surveyed the bright modern farmhouse decor for a familiar face.

She was unmistakable, even at a distance — the striking gold hair, now fashionably shorn into a short bob; the chic, tailored coat dress; the nails manicured to perfection, drumming a bored beat on her martini glass. She sat alone at a cocktail table of wood burl, scanning late-day email on her smart phone. Whatever the time, Quinn Fabray was rarely separated from work.

She looked up, connecting with her former wine editor, offering him a knowing, closed mouth smile.

"And he walks into my life again," she said, leaning in to accept a kiss on the cheek. "It's good to see you, Kurt."

"And how many rounds are you ahead of me?"

"This is the first. I only got here a few minutes ago."

"And you got a table?"

"Kurt, really. Do I ever wait for tables?"

She had a point. When Quinn's name appeared on a reservation roster, the city's restaurateurs knew to hold both a dinner table and a spot in the bar for the influential publisher.

She stood up, took a last sip of her drink and caught the eye of her waiter. With a nod, he led them to a private corner of the dining room.

They spent the next two hours making small talk and sipping Châteauneuf-du-Pape, nibbling on a tasting menu the chef cooked custom for the table. They talked wine, and the Taste Challenge and whether the current year's vintage would be any good due to the western drought. They talked about everything but what Kurt had expected.

"I have to admit, Quinn, I thought I'd get the hard sell tonight, but this has been really nice."

"Hard sell?" she said, feigning innocence.

"You've just tried to get me to come back so many times, I figured..."

"Kurt. I can't just get together to catch up with an old friend?"

"Um,  _no_."

"What do you say we get out of here?" she said. "We can catch a cab to Midtown and check out the tree at Rockefeller Center, maybe grab some hot chocolate at Maison."

"So, I'm a tourist now?"

She flashed a grin and a platinum card.

"It would seem."

****

Bundled up against the chill, they stood at the corner of the Rockefeller Center rink, sipping from steaming cardboard cups of dark hot chocolate. Skaters circled and stumbled.  Tourists gathered for selfie portraits under the sparkling Connecticut spruce looming over the iconic gilded statue of Prometheus.

Kurt quietly took it all in, the slightest hint of a smile on his lips.

"I always tell myself I won't come down here at Christmas, but I always do," Quinn said.

Kurt stared at the ice, and the concentric circles of skaters.

"It just doesn't quite feel like Christmas until I've seen that damn tree. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Kurt nodded.

"Do you miss it?" Quinn asked, looking at him.

Kurt focused on the skaters, distracted.

"Hmm?"

"The city," she said.

He set his palm to her waist, steering her away from the Plaza.

"Let's walk," he said. "It's getting chilly."

They strolled arm-in-arm toward Fifth Avenue, stopping to watch a countdown timer projected across the facade of Saks' flagship store tick down to zero.

"This year's big event," Quinn said. "It's a bigger draw than their windows."

Sure enough, crowds collected along the sidewalk as the clock clicked to zero. The sound of a slightly digitized  _Carol of the Bells_  filled the air, and the entire facade of the famed department store lit up with projected snowflakes, which evolved into a dance of zig-zagging green vines, which then morphed into billowing red ribbons tying up the building like a giant gift.

A cartoonish giant snow creature peeked into the display, pulling the screen into a new theme: a group of skaters, circling in Busby Berkeley-like precision across the walls of the store. A set of virtual red curtains then closed on the show, and the countdown timer started anew, emerging from the digital walls like a modern-day cuckoo clock.

 "Impressive," Kurt said. "But I don't get the monster."

"The kids love him," Quinn said, tightening her grip on his arm. "Come on. Let's look at the windows."

They crossed Fifth Avenue and maneuvered their way along the edge of the building, pausing in front of each Christmas-themed window. Animatronic purple-haired elves toiled in a modish ‘60s-inspired workshop in one. The next featured a vampish pastel boudoir festooned with pink cupcakes, icicles and  _plenty_  of gemstones. 

Kurt arched an eyebrow and kept moving.

"You never answered my question," Quinn said. "Do you miss it?"

Truth be told, Kurt wasn't sure. He'd considered himself a city boy since the day he first set foot in New York —since long before he ever got to the city, really. And as much as he missed the infinite opportunities of New York City, he knew his heart, and it was currently located in a vineyard tucked away from civilization, deep in the Carneros Hills.

"Who wouldn't miss this?" he said. "The lights, the decorations, the dead rat over there by the curb — it's pure New York."

Quinn rolled her eyes.

"Really, Kurt. Do you ever get the pulse of the city out of your system?"

"Yeah, I know. Moments like this? You don't get this anywhere else. Sure, sometimes I miss it. But that's why I'm visiting, right?"

"I think it's more than that," she said, steering him to the next tableaux. "There's a pace to this city, and you either embrace it and thrive or you get out. Really, there are two kinds of people in this world, Kurt: New Yorkers, and everybody else.

"And you may live out on the farm, but you're a New Yorker. You live for this."

"I am not moving back to New York, Quinn."

"And I'm not telling you to. I'm just saying that when I ask how it's going for you out there, I really want to know. Because that's not your pace."

Kurt gave her a strong, side-eyed glare.

"You sound like Blaine," he said.

"Oh, now  _that's_  interesting. Do tell."

The puff of warm breath escaping his mouth into the chilly December air betrayed Kurt's brief sigh.

"He somehow has it stuck in his head that it's impossible for me to be happy where I am. That I can't adapt, or that I'm bored, or... I honestly have no idea. And no matter how many times I tell him I'm happy where I am, he brings it up again, or he gives me that look."

"And that is?"

Kurt turned to face her, then did his best hangdog expression, looking utterly sad and defeated. "He did it again the other night. We had this wonderful moment decorating the tree and then, the question. Frankly, I wish he'd just stop. I mean, how many times do I have to reassure him that I'm happy right where I am?"

"Maybe he knows you better than I gave him credit for," Quinn said. "Let me ask you something. How come that handsome husband of yours stayed home? This should be a down time for him. The crush is finished, the wine's already racked by now."

 _Because he hates New York_ , Kurt thought.

"He had business," Kurt said.

"I see," she said. "Isn't he  _from_  New York?"

"Yes."

"I would think that the chance to visit family and friends, during the holidays, on someone else's dime... I don't know, I think it would be worth moving some appointments around for."

Kurt could see the wheels turning, the sly smart smile creeping across her face. It was a victorious look, one she'd fostered over years of using her wits and grace to force her way through closed doors and glass ceilings.

"I'm not moving back to New York, Quinn."

"I haven't asked you to. I'm just saying that it must feel good to spend time in the city again, to catch up on the new restaurants, the shows."

Kurt eyed her suspiciously.

"Do I need to list the restaurants within 30 minutes of where I live? Bottega? Redd?  _The French Laundry_?"

"It's interesting, how you put that," she countered.

"What do you mean?"

"You said it was where you live."

"Yes?"

"You didn't call it your home."

****

Kurt settled into his hotel room a little before 11 pm, kicking off his shoes and changing into pajama pants and a soft T-shirt that he was sure Blaine wouldn't notice had been pilfered from his drawer. It was a habit Kurt had developed on the now rare occasion that he slipped out of town without his husband.

He flicked on the television to a network affiliate, waiting for the local news, and clicked mute. He settled into bed, phone in hand, and dialed.

"Hello?"

"Hello, husband."

"Hey."

Kurt smiled and sunk into the pillows. The tension he had heard in Blaine's voice that morning was gone, replaced with a deep, honey-smooth tone that never failed to act as a soothing balm to Kurt's nerves.

They talked for a while about the routine, the mundane, the daily chores and local gossip — the dinner table conversation that had already become part of their daily routine, and that Kurt expected to be a part of his life for years to come.

"How was your dinner?"

"Well, the cocktails were good."

"I bet."

"The food was fashionably procured from local sources."

"The farms of Manhattan?"

"Something like that, yes," Kurt said with a soft giggle.

"And Quinn?"

Kurt paused, and bit his lip for a moment.

"A force of nature."

"As always," Blaine said. "Did she smooth-talk you, or get right to the sales pitch?"

"Not exactly."

"She didn't try to woo you back? It was just a sociable dinner?"

"Not exactly."

"I'm afraid I'm not following you, Kurt."

"I don't know what to make of it, to be honest with you. It was a lot of catching up, and the usual  — she asked about Santana, of course, but I got the impression I didn't tell her anything she didn't already know. And we're meeting at her office later this week, so I think she just wanted to get together, or at least I  _thought_  so.

"She's got this crazy outlook that once you've lived in New York, you can't live anywhere else."

Speaking to silence, Kurt relayed his story of Quinn's prodding questions, how she seemed to be trying to convince him that he belonged on the east coast.

When Blaine finally spoke, his words were measured.

"And you told her?"

"I told her I don't live here anymore. I told her I live in a beautiful house, with a beautiful man and a truly spectacular Christmas tree."

"If you do say so yourself."

"If I  _do_  say so myself. And as much as I would love to go on and on about it, I'm really kind of exhausted. Catch up tomorrow?"

"Of course."

"And Blaine?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"Love you, too."

They hung up, and Kurt grabbed the television remote, turning the volume up and setting the sleep timer. He fell asleep nearly as soon as he hit the pillow, the news of a financial scandal droning in the background.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My birthday gift to myself? Getting this thing out on time! It was looking like it might be touch and go there, for awhile!
> 
> My thanks as always to iconicklaine for understanding how the world's great drivers actually use a fairly light touch on the steering wheel, and to randomactsofdouchebaggery, who is beginning to realize that my spelling is sometimes — let's just call it rushed, shall we? — and so far, doesn't seem to be holding it against me.


	6. Chapter 6

Blaine awoke in the thick of night — anxious, alone and unbearably hard.

As soon as he finished talking to Kurt, he filled his time with busywork. He tried to inventory the wine cellar, but soon gave up. He washed dishes. He scrubbed the sinks. He finally turned on the TV, but with 280 channels of satellite and nothing worth watching, he shut it off, turned on some music and poured himself a Scotch.

When the glass emptied, he switched off the lights and climbed into bed a good hour earlier than usual.

His body said rest, but his head refused, and drifted to thoughts of Kurt, and New York; of ice rinks and small mittened hands clutching hot cocoas; of visiting Santa Claus at Macy's and mass at St. Patrick's.

Four hours in bed had finally resulted in maybe an hour's worth of sleep when his mind and body conspired to end his slumber. 

He reached for the cellphone cradled on the nightstand, opened an eye and concentrated until the screen pulled into focus:  _2:14 a.m._  He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

"Shit."

He couldn't kill time by calling Kurt. It was too early even on the east coast for anything other than an emergency call — and Kurt certainly wouldn't consider  _I'm lonely_  much of an emergency, especially in the pre-dawn morning.

So he gave in to it, raising his hand to his neck, his fingers grazing his collar bone. Then he let his other hand drift.

*****

Achy and bleary-eyed, Blaine dragged himself through his morning routine. He felt catatonic in the shower. He slurped half a pot of coffee, brewed extra strong. He groaned as he loaded cases of Rhapsody wines into his truck for delivery to a local tasting room. He would rely on the cool morning and the open air of his Scout to fully roust him awake.

The Sonoma Community Tasting Room left a lot to be desired. Off a side alley from the town square, it was run on the lowest of budgets, with small local winemakers kicking in their share of the rent in exchange for a cut of the possible exposure and sales from whatever foot traffic stumbled through the door.

It was a far cry from the better tasting rooms of the valley, designed to fit the image, character and budget of each winery. Some were classic estates, built of stone and mahogany or oak. Others were sleekly modern, with light wood floors and minimalist furnishings. Others harkened to old world villas or chateaus.

But none of them looked quite like the 1200-square-foot Sonoma Community Tasting Room. 

And none of them wanted to.

Where classic wineries boasted knotted wood floors, the SCTR featured stained linoleum. Where major wine centers served drinks on polished wood burl or brushed stainless steel countertops, the SCTR purloined an old display case from a long-since abandoned department store for use as its bar.

But it did have stemware, and lots of it, chunky glass wine glasses purchased bulk from a party supply store that was selling its old stock to make room for newer, better materials.

Blaine had never offered Rhapsody wines at the storefront because he had never needed to, but he had offered to help from time-to-time when the group needed an extra hand. They had asked for his wines, many times in fact. Each time, he had politely declined.

But with the pressure he was receiving to open Rhapsody up to guests, Blaine decided that offering a few cases of  _Mezzo_  and  _Allegrezza_  for tasting and sale in the co-op might not be such a bad idea after all.

So he found himself surrounded by dark green and amber bottles, his back to the door as he knelt, one hand on the floor to steady himself, setting bottles in low racks cleared especially for the center's newest — and most prominent — tenant. 

He heard the door open, but paid little attention.

"I'll be right with you," he said, unpacking the last of the bottles.

He heard a breathy exhale and what sounded like a muffled chuckle.

"You just keep doing what you do best," said the familiar voice that dripped with innuendo. "It wasn't much to look at from the outside, but the view is vastly improved in here."

Blaine stopped dead, then set the last bottle in the rack and rose to his feet.

"Sebastian."

****

Sebastian Smythe was slumming it for the afternoon. The chief winemaker for Dalton Wines had crossed the valley to visit supply centers, and stopped by Sonoma's city center on a whim on his return back to Napa County.

He headed directly for the SCTR.

He leaned against the wall, arms folded across the placket of his Brooks Brothers Oxford shirt, an eyebrow raised, a grin on his lips.

"Hey, Blaine. Joining the hospitality industry?"

"Just helping out a bit," Blaine said. "What brings you over here?"

"What? No, 'How are you, Sebastian'? No, 'It's been awhile'?"

"It's been awhile. How are you? Why are you here?"

Sebastian circled the small storefront, inspecting the cheap wooden racks, occasionally pulling a bottle and turning it over in his hands.

"If this is what you get for winning the  _Taste_ Challenge, you may want to rethink your strategy," he said, eyeing the water stains on the acoustic ceiling tile. "Really, Blaine. You can do better."

Blaine stepped behind the counter, putting a barrier between himself and his Napa rival. It had been a few years since their brief affair, but Blaine hadn't felt comfortable around him since. On the rare occasions they found themselves alone, Sebastian never failed to hit on Blaine, and remind him – aggressively – of their brief tryst.

"Actually, I was wanting to talk to your better half. We need to talk business."

It was  _not_  what Blaine expected to hear.

"Hmm. We finally agree on something," he said. "But you won't find him here. He's back east."

"New York?"

Blaine nodded.

" _Interesting._ "

"Nothing interesting about it. He's away on business, and visiting some friends."

"He's working? I thought he'd thrown it all away to be some kind of hausfrau. Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to him about."

Sebastian stopped at the Rhapsody display and reached down, grabbing a bottle of 2012  _Mezzo_.

"This'll do," he said. 

He circled around to the back of the bar with Blaine, fished a sommelier's corkscrew from a drawer and opened the bottle. 

"Grab a couple of glasses," he said.

Blaine looked at him a little suspiciously, but complied. Sebastian poured.

"I'm assuming that little patio table out there is yours?" he said, nodding at a cafe table and chairs sitting in a patch of sunshine just outside the door. It had seen better days. 

"Grab your glass."

Sebastian led the way, bottle and glass in hand, waiting for Blaine to open the door for him. 

"Quite a view you got here," he said, looking out over the alley and an asphalt parking lot.

"Give it a rest, okay? Not everybody's got your budget," Blaine said, propping the door open on the off-chance the phone rang.

"You do."

"I don't have Dalton's budget. Not even close," Blaine said.

"You can do better than this. I know you, Blaine. I know your background, and I know how well you're doing. You can afford to do it right."

"Maybe I am doing it right."

"You really are committed to this whole 'artisan' thing, aren't you? I thought maybe that was all just a phase back when you took those internships with the big guys. Not so. Though I did hear you finally expanded."

"I bought a few more acres," Blaine said. 

"I hear you doubled up. But twice the size of small is still small, isn't it?"

"It works for me," Blaine said, sipping at his wine.

"And how about the other Mr. Anderson? Does it work for him?"

Blaine eyed him over his glass and kept mute.

"I see," Sebastian said. "That's kind of what I'd like to talk to him about. I have a proposition for him."

"I bet you do," Blaine said.

"Been there, tried that," Sebastian said, smiling. "No, there's talk that the big boss would like to host his own tasting event over at Dalton, a big VIP deal, and we thought that he might be an asset. And I want to talk to him about getting back into writing."

"You want him to..."

"... to write. He hasn't been doing it lately, at all. Don't think I haven't noticed. I thought he was going to do something with that little blog of his, monetize it. If he doesn't do it fairly soon, he's going to lose some of the brand value he built up working for  _Taste_."

Blaine knew he was right, of course, but he wasn't about to admit it. When Kurt finally announced that he was done with the magazine, it was like he'd put his business life on hold. He'd tried to help out around the winery — and had, to some degree — but he had done little to retain his personal cache in the world of wine, not that Blaine thought that was necessary.

Sebastian droned on, and Blaine listened, at least intermittently, to his plans to fend off social media-savvy competitors by convincing Kurt to get back in the game. What Kurt needed, he said, was an active online presence based on a subscription model. And since Kurt's demographic was already accustomed to paying for quality content just as they paid for quality vintages, they wouldn't hesitate to follow their favorite wine writer to a new, online, subscription-based home. 

And Dalton's parent company would be delighted to underwrite it, if it could be used to slow their competitor's progress into the online world.

"I just hope that Ms. Fabray hasn't beaten us to the punch," he concluded, looking for a reaction.

Blaine just stared at his glass. 

"There's no telling," he finally said. "She's been trying to get him back pretty much since the day he left  _Taste_."

"You know, Blaine, Kurt's a lot like me."

Blaine looked up, and shook his head. 

"I'm not kidding," Sebastian said. "I live here out of necessity. Do you really think I belong on a  _farm_? I'm glad we're only an hour or so from the city, otherwise, I'd go mad. You know I got an apartment over there? Half the time, I commute, just to get out of this place."

Blaine looked at him incredulously. 

"You're a winemaker, Sebastian. You're from a family of winemakers. Why would you live in the city?"

"That's just my point," he said. "I'm here because circumstances dictate it. 

"And so is Kurt."

Blaine's face went blank.

"I do this for a living because it's what I was groomed to do — to take over the family business. And it turns out I'm pretty good at it. But I'm no country boy. And it doesn't matter whether it's New York, or San Francisco or LA. When I'm in the city, I feel alive. Now, tell me that's not your man."

Blaine bit his lip for a moment, letting the words sink in. On the surface, he would say that Sebastian and Kurt had nothing in common. On the surface, he'd say that he had nothing in common with Sebastian.

But he knew that wasn't true at all.

Sebastian chuckled. 

"You think this is about missing the city? About being homesick?" he said. "You're wrong. What he misses is his  _life_.

"Your man wasn't born into this. Neither were you, for that matter. You were supposed to end up in finance, or pharmaceuticals or something, right? You had a course charted out for you, just like I did. I have an inheritance and a winery waiting for me some day. You just found  _something else_  that works for you.  _Lucky you_. But Hummel? His connection to wine is through restaurants, not farming. He's about product, not process. His connection to this place is you. Period."

Sebastian, clearly delighted with his moment of inspiration, sat back in his chair and took a prolonged sip at his Zinfandel.

"You just  _hate_  it when I'm right, don't you?" he said, refilling his glass, and topping off Blaine's.

Blaine said nothing. He sat there, absorbing the words, resting his chin in his hand.

"Let your man know I have some business prospects for him, okay? Something to keep his engine revving."

"I know all about you and your engines, Sebastian, and so does Kurt."

"Hummel's a big boy. As I recall, he knows how to say no — better than you, as a matter of fact. And contrary to popular belief, I do have some scruples. I never bother with married men. They're boring, and more trouble than they're worth."

"That's good to know," Blaine said, a wisp of sarcasm accenting his words.

Sebastian couldn't help himself. He stood to leave, and gave Blaine a knowing smile.

"You know where I am when this thing collapses under the weight of its problems,"

"There's the Sebastian we all know."

"And love," he said with a wink.

 ****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to iconicklaine, who serves as a constant reminder that the characters will go to plces as they please, and especially to justusunicorns, a truly great pinch-hitter and all-around lifesaver.


	7. Chapter 7

Kurt gorged on culture.

He couldn't help himself, really. Some people over-eat during the holidays, indulging in a parade of cakes, cookies and booze. Kurt lost himself in a buffet of clubs, restaurants, shows, shopping and gossip that a week in the city offered.

He took time to catch up with old friends and new boutiques during the day, then caught a show at night. In between, he squeezed in appointments with a few of business contacts, buyers and sommeliers, to keep his head in the game and his name on their lips.

He had fallen back into the rhythm of the city effortlessly. It energized him, picked up the tempo of his step, then left him full and sated at the end of each day. It was like a sugar high followed by a comfortable crash at the end of the evening. Then, he would pick up the phone and call Blaine, letting the comfortable cocoon of Blaine's honeyed voice sweep over him again, slowing his pulse and his blood pressure, until he drifted off to sleep.

Through it all, he put off thoughts of his upcoming meeting with Quinn.

He had already rescheduled it once, claiming a last-minute conflict. His avoidance didn't surprise him. In the past, meetings with Quinn meant being accountable for his time, presenting a plan or strategy that often hadn't been planned or strategized at all, and then listening as she called him out on his bullshit.

It was frustrating, having a boss, or a friend — or someone who was both — who could read you as precisely as Quinn Fabray read him.

Kurt also had a good sense of exactly what she wanted to talk about. She hadn't been shy about encouraging him to "get back in the game" after leaving  _Taste_. And he had to admit, grudgingly, that he hadn’t given his arrangement with the magazine much of a chance to succeed after he'd married Blaine. 

And when it got right down to it, Quinn had been surprisingly understanding when Kurt said he was done, that he no longer wanted to manage the wine content for the publication — even from his west coast home. She had said that she understood, that it was time to focus on settling into his new home, and that he should always consider the door open if he wanted to come back.

And she had nudged that door. Repeatedly.

She had messaged Kurt, called Kurt, emailed Kurt — first, with simple questions about work, or a new vintage; later, asking him to consider picking up the odd writing job.

So as he readied himself for their meeting, adjusting his tie in the mirror and taking one last swipe of his lint roller to his black Calvin Klein blazer, he reminded himself:  _She drove you crazy before. She loaded you with too much work. You have a good life, just the way it is._

****

There was a time when the subway was Kurt's preferred method of New York City transportation. But Taste was picking up the tab, and Kurt was in no mood to spend the morning jostling with the morning commute crowd, or standing in a crowded, unventilated subway car, or getting uncomfortably stuck next to a strung-out couple having a shouting match in front of a train full of commuters.

 _Yes_ , Kurt thought.  _I'll let the doorman flag down that taxi and I'll let Quinn pick up the tab. Maybe I'm finally a Californian, after all._

Kurt entered the doors of The SoHo Building, the new home of Taste Magazine, and made a beeline for the elevators. He was promptly stopped by security, and redirected to guest check-in.

As he pulled out his identification, it struck him just how much time had passed since the days when the guards waved him through with a "Good morning, Mr. Hummel."

Now, he had to have his driver's license scanned and his appointment confirmed with the  _Taste_  office before security cleared him to proceed to the 12th floor.

The doors opened to an office unrecognizable from the one he once called his professional home. Running counter to much of the periodical industry, times had been good to  _Taste_  Magazine, particularly since the success of the first Challenge, and Quinn had celebrated by moving to the fashionable SoHo creative district.

The office was sleek, minimalist and edgy — just like the image Quinn fostered with her flagship magazine.

On display in the glass-and-leather foyer was a Taste museum of sorts, featuring photos and souvenirs of its successes. Front and center was a bottle of 2009  _Sotto Voce_ , and a photograph of Blaine shaking Quinn's hand, accepting the gold medal prize as winner of the magazine's inaugural wine competition. In the background of the photo he saw himself, hands clasped together, smiling and staring in a way that hinted at the fact that he was already a little in love with this man.

“Kurt!” Quinn's voice rousted him from his reverie. "You're on time."

She sounded surprised, a light mocking of Kurt's less-than-stellar relationship with schedules.

Kurt simply smiled, and extended his hands in a  _Here I am_  gesture.

"Well, come in, then. Let me show you around the new office."

Quinn took him on a brief tour, circling the space. It was a modern loft in a historic brick-accented building, open and airy, but preserving the privacy of office conversations with thick glass partitions where drywall once stood. It reminded him of an Apple store, minus the crowds and hipster employees.

At the far end, in the corner, stood Quinn's office, overlooking the boutiques of Greene Street: Penguin, La Perla, Tiffany. As he got closer, he realized that the glass walls could be shut off from the rest of the room by electric shades that rolled down from the ceiling. Quinn was never one to leave her life — public or private — open for all to see.

"Quite an upgrade, Quinn."

"You helped pay for it, you know. Advertising went through the roof after that first Challenge, and it gave us a chance to build the office that  _Taste_  deserves."

Not to mention the revenue from the product tie-ins: the wine clubs, the tasting events around the country, and the branded wine merchandise that had more than made up for the generally lackluster subscription rates in the magazine industry.

"Your work had a lot to do with our success, Kurt. You're missed around here."

 _She's getting right down to business_ , Kurt thought.

"Thanks, Quinn. But you know I'm not moving..."

"And I'm not asking you to," she said. She paused for a moment, looking Kurt in the eye. "Okay, let's get down to it. I've got big plans for the wine section, Kurt. It's become our calling card, and it's going to grow. And I want someone I trust to shepherd it through.”

Quinn outlined a work plan that she said would give Kurt flexibility — a chance to split time between his new home and his old job.

With a hefty pay hike.

"People do it all the time, Kurt. Have you ever tried to fly nonstop between LaGuardia and LAX on a Monday or a Friday? You'd better plan ahead, because those flights are filled with commuters in the entertainment industry."

"I'm not in the entertainment industry," Kurt said.

"Good, that means there should be more seats for you to San Francisco." 

Kurt looked at her skeptically. Every conversation, every text, had suggested that Quinn was trying to convince him to move back to New York. He shook his head, a little dumbfounded. 

"You know why I left, right?"

Quinn just smiled.

"I left because the job had become too much. I was doing everything, with no support. I was the writer, the editor, the columnist, the event planner, the goodwill ambassador," Kurt said. "If you're planning on expanding, it's only going to get worse."

"I'm expanding the staff."

"To two?"

"To five," Quinn said. "You'd be an editor in more than just name only. That's why I'd need you here for a while — so you can help hire your staff. And I'd limit your duties. No more event planning."

She assured him that she had already begun interviewing California-based event teams to run the Challenge, that his only role would be to show up and write about it.

"Kurt, I'm looking to protect your time," she said, trying to reassure him.

"I think my husband will have a hard time believing that, Quinn. What you've outlined sounds like all my down time will be spent at 30,000 feet. And I'd still be the local guy in California — and that means things are going to land in my lap." 

"How about if I put it in writing?" Quinn said, leaning in. " _No work on the Challenge for Mr. Hummel._ " 

"It's Hummel-Anderson," he said.

****

Kurt tried to spend the rest of his day leisurely, but the weather and his tension conspired against him.

His mind was too distracted to take another meeting. A light snow began to pick up momentum, deterring him from a walk through the park. He was in no mood to shop. 

He headed back to the Ritz Carlton, eventually drifting down to the Star Lounge, a classic, clubby bar with dark wood walls, overstuffed sofas and $20 cocktails. He ordered a late lunch, and then a martini, while he waited for the telltale chime alerting him to incoming email.

It arrived around 4 p.m.

The note was succinct, but thorough enough to be convincing.

 

Kurt,

Thanks for hearing me out today. I am not exaggerating when I say that Taste hasn't been the same without you. 

I recognize your concerns about relocation, and I think you will see from my offer that if you rejoin our team, I will do everything in my power to ensure that your responsibilities are focused and manageable. I am also willing to schedule your business trips to New York in such a manner as to maximize your time at home.

 

  * In sum,  _Taste_  Magazine would like to make the following offer of employment:
  * The position of wine editor, to be based in the location of your choice;
  * An increase of 20 percent over your last gross salary with  _Taste_ , as well as a reinstatement of full benefits, grandfathered to your last date of employment;
  * As wine editor, you will oversee the development of a redesigned and expanded wine section and staff;
  * _Taste_  will arrange for the long-term lodging of your choice during the development of the expanded wine section, and will work with you to coordinate a schedule to maximize your time at home; and
  * You will not be responsible for the development or promotion of, beyond the scope of your responsibilities as editor, the  _Taste_  Challenge.



 

I'm looking forward to working with you again, Kurt.

Best Regards,

Quinn Fabray

 

He settled into a corner table in the bar, sipping his drink and reading, then re-reading her offer.

He would need another martini before he could call Blaine.

****

"So, how'd it go?"

Blaine didn't bother with the niceties, the greetings, the small talk.

"And  _hello_ to you, too," Kurt answered, trying to sound breezy. "Still toasty back there? Am I coming home to cuddle weather, or will I find you working shirtless in the vineyard?"

"It's starting to cool off. And I always wear a shirt when I'm working."

“That’s a pity."

"It sounds like someone's had a good afternoon," Blaine said. 

"The bar in this hotel is famous for its classic cocktails."

"I see," Blaine said with mock gravity. "Was this before or after your meeting with Quinn today?"

" _After._  It was a morning meeting."

"And?"

Kurt waited a beat. He wasn't nearly as touched by the liquor as he had hoped he'd be.

"Unsurprisingly, she'd like me to come back, and made me an offer."

Kurt could have sworn he heard Blaine swallow on the other end of the phone.

"So what did you say?"

"Not much. I told her I'd look at her offer and think about it."

Kurt wasn't certain if the phone had gone dead until he heard the dog start to bark in the background.

"Blaine?"

He was silent for a few additional beats.

"Where would this job be based?" he asked quietly.

"Over the long term, wherever I want," Kurt said.

"What does  _that_ mean?"

Kurt explained Quinn's plan for an expansion and redesign of Taste's wine section, how his responsibilities would change, but be capped and protected the Challenge. How he would get a significant pay raise, and build on his existing benefits.

"And it would mean some work in New York," Kurt added. "She wants me to handle the hiring of the new staff from here, and to work with her and the design concept team on the new section."

"From there," Blaine said, his voice going flat.

"Only part time," Kurt responded quickly. "I can alternate weeks, or adjust the schedule so I have blocks of time in California."

"Blocks of time —"

"She said she would maximize my time at home."

"I'm not sure exactly what that's supposed to mean, Kurt. All I know is that you were miserable when you left that magazine. She took advantage. And now you're thinking about going  _back_?"

"I wouldn't have to do the Challenge anymore, Blaine. No promotions, no event planning."

"She says that now. And exactly how much time is she expecting you to be in New York?"

"On and off until the section reboot," Kurt said.

"And that is what, exactly?"

The tension built in Blaine's voice, and Kurt began choosing his words carefully, editing them to a bare minimum.

"Probably six-to-eight months," he said.

"Is that what she said? Then bank on a year, Kurt. And plan on spending more time back east than she's suggested, and inheriting more responsibilities. You _know_  how this goes."

Kurt sighed, muttered "fuck" under his breath and stared at his empty martini glass for a moment, trying to will it full again.

"What's really going on here, Blaine?" he asked, trying to keep his tone controlled. "Weren't you the one who encouraged me to take Quinn up on her invitation? Didn't you encourage me to come to New York, because you thought I was bored at home? You knew what she was going to ask, just like I did, and you encouraged me to come here anyway. And now you're angry that I took the meeting?"

"I'm not angry that you took the meeting," Blaine said. 

"Then what?"

"Not angry," he repeated. "I just encouraged you to go visit."

"Go visit? You knew exactly why Quinn wanted to meet with me. If you're so uncomfortable with it, why did you want me to fly out here?"

"Because I thought it would help you get it out of your system," Blaine spat out.

"Out of my system? You mean work? Or Manhattan? And what if it's not something you outgrow, Blaine? What if this is right for me? Then what? Are you going to just walk away?"

Kurt could hear Blaine take a deep inhale — a habit he knew Blaine used to steady his nerves.

"Of course not," Blaine said, almost under his breath. 

"Don't you trust me? Don't you trust me to do the right thing?"

"Yes," Blaine said simply.

They sat quietly for a moment, letting the heated words dissipate over the miles and time zones, neither wanting to be the first to speak. 

Blaine was the first to chip away at the silence.

"By the way, you're in demand. Quinn isn't the only one with a proposition for you," he said, his voice settling.

"What do you mean?"

Blaine told him about the visit from Sebastian, and the surprising lack of innuendo, and the fact that it was Kurt, not himself, that Sebastian sought out.

"I bet he had a proposition," Kurt muttered.

"It wasn't anything like that. He sounds like he wants to offer you a job."

"I'm sure he at least ogled you."

"I had my eye on him the entire time. He seemed sincere — or at least as sincere as he gets."

"I bet," Kurt said.

"I'm just saying, you may want to hear him out."

"And you're comfortable with that?"

"I don't know," Blaine said. "I guess I'm as comfortable with Sebastian offering you a job as I am with you getting a job offer from Quinn."

"Fair enough."  

They settled into a safely guarded conversation, of weather and tasks and Kurt's two remaining days in the city, which he planned to enjoy.

“I’m still picking you up at the airport on Friday?” Blaine asked, wrapping up the conversation.

“One o’clock, sharp. I love you.”

“Love you, too. I’ll see you at baggage claim,” Blaine said, hanging up.

Kurt clutched the phone in one hand, and rested his chin against the other. He stayed frozen like that for a moment, staring blankly toward the bar. He tapped the phone aimlessly against the table until a waiter asked if he would like a menu.

Kurt signaled for his check when a thought came to him — one last thing to do in New York. He called up the contacts file on his phone, and typed in a name.

****

                                                                           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks as always to iconicklaine, who knows thay a gentle nudge an be more effective than an outright shove, and to justusunicorns, who dove into the deep end without even bothering to dip in his toe first.
> 
> Special thanks, too, to the talented buckeyegrrl who has again created cover art that captures the heart of the story. Thank you!!


	8. Chapter 8

"It feels like I just saw you."

"It was called Thanksgiving," Kurt said, extending his hand in greeting, and instead getting pulled in for the full bear-hug treatment that was a standard Cooper Anderson hello.

Cooper had no qualms about ditching work for an afternoon, even on short notice — particularly when it came to catching up with his brother-in-law. They had formed a quick and easy friendship once they had met, despite their obvious differences: Kurt, the polished and sophisticated wine critic, and Cooper, his husband's older brother, who had discovered a measure of success in advertising despite his admittedly _laissez faire_ approach to life and business.

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming to New York, huh? We could have _planned_ something," Cooper said, keeping his arm thrown around Kurt's shoulder.

"I've heard about what happens when you make _plans_ , Cooper," Kurt said, feeling instantly swept up in his brother-in-law's unmistakable joie de vivre. "And it was a last-minute trip. Business."

"I thought you'd quit."

"They want me back."

"Ah haaaa," Cooper said, extending the last syllable and tsk'ing under his breath. "I can already see where this is going. How 'bout you say we get out of this dungeon of a hotel and walk a bit? It's finally a day worth enjoying out there."

Cooper swept his arm toward the door in an over-the-top _after you_ gesture, leaving Kurt shaking his head and grinning.

There were moments when Kurt couldn't help but get caught up in the force of nature that was Cooper Anderson. He and Blaine were so alike, yet so different. Like his younger brother, Cooper was classically handsome, with dark hair, blue eyes and a softly chiseled face lifted from the Golden Age of Hollywood, a modern-day Cary Grant.

Yet Blaine — so internal, so private — was often serious to the point of surliness. Blaine's personality hovered in a room's shadows, but Cooper's perpetually sunny disposition was its light. More than that, he was like a one-man laser light show, illuminating a dinner table or a party with merry, if somewhat vacuous, glitz.

Blaine was anchored in a solitary life he had created for himself, while Cooper had drifted from party to party and girlfriend to girlfriend. And Cooper Anderson was the first to admit, it worked for him.           

Kurt found the brothers' relationship surprising. Since first moving in with Blaine, Kurt had learned that they were much closer than he had first presumed. They spoke frequently, laughed openly, and clearly shared private, serious moments that Kurt did not yet feel fully privy to — even after nearly a year of marriage.

They crossed the street to the southern entrance to Central Park, taking in the first temperate day of December. They made small talk and watched the parade of dog walkers shuffle by, occasionally pausing while Cooper craned his head to get the best possible view of a Lycra-encased runner.

"Sunny days in the park. Nothing like 'em," he said with a wink.

"So, I'm assuming if this was a purely social call, I would have heard about it earlier than last night," Cooper said, finally shifting gears. "What's up?"

Kurt kept his eyes on the pavement, and his shoes, his hands tucked tightly into the pockets of his pea coat.

"I just thought, being here in town... on my own... would be a good time to, um, talk," Kurt said, fumbling for words.

"We're talking. Something's on your mind. Spit it out."

"There's a mixed metaphor in there somewhere," Kurt said, smiling to himself.

"You're stalling," Cooper countered. "Are you two having problems? Is that it? Because everything seemed pretty good at Thanksgiving. A lot of the newlywed vibe — like maybe I should go to my room early because three's a crowd?"

"Oh my god," Kurt said.

Cooper just grinned, proud of himself for making Kurt grimace.

"I wouldn't say we have problems. I love him. I feel a connection with him that I've never felt with anyone before. I know we got married... quickly..."

"That's an understatement," Cooper said.

"He makes me feel loved, treasured. But something's not quite right, and I can't figure it out. When I met him, I thought he was just sort of dark and brooding, and it was kind of, um, hot."

"TMI, Kurt..."

"But when I got to know him, I realized that wasn't it at all. It's almost like he's got this thread of sadness that runs through him. But he won't open up about it, and when we do have an argument, or a disagreement, or whatever, it's almost impossible to get him to open up. It's like he doesn't trust me enough to let me in.

"And Cooper, it's starting to drive me crazy."

Cooper's demeanor shifted from breezy to serious like he'd flipped a switch. "How 'bout we grab a coffee up at the rink and sit down for a bit?" he said.

The ice rink was unusually busy for a weekday, with tourists and a groups of elementary-school-aged children taking advantage of the sunny afternoon on the outdoor ice rink. The food concession was little more than a cart, but there were tables, and sunshine and a classic New York holiday tableaux to make up for it.

Cooper found a table in a patch of warm sunshine and settled in.

"It'll always be Wollman Rink to me," he said, watching the skaters. "Naming rights be damned."

He turned to Kurt, his look serious.

"Trust has always been a tough thing for Blaine," he said. "He set himself up for it, really. And then he sequestered himself away for so long that I think it's just become a hard habit to break."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he didn't exactly choose the path of least resistance," Cooper said. Kurt squinted at him, puzzled. "The break from the family, Kurt."

"He doesn't talk about your parents much."

"I'm not surprised."

Cooper sipped at coffee and distracted himself with the cityscape while he colored in some of the life stories that Blaine had left blank for Kurt.

There was the age difference that defined them to this day, but oddly seemed to have inverted over the years. Cooper lived his life with the apparent joy and responsibilities of a child, while Blaine saddled himself with the emotional baggage that is often carried by the eldest child, not the youngest.

There were the expectations — Blaine was nearly ten years Cooper's junior, but had throughout most of his youth carried the weight of family tradition and success. He was the Golden Child, the straight-A student who succeeded at everything he undertook: math, science, music, art.

Cooper? Less so.

"I remember when he was in high school, and he got a B+ in some math class. You know, calculus or trig or one of those. He was inconsolable," Cooper said. "He gets home and locks himself in his room, doesn't come out until he was told to get downstairs for supper. Then, all through dinner, he gets the talk — what he needed to do to be better next time. You know what? I never even qualified for those classes, and I didn't hear about it, not once."

Kurt nodded, and listened, and absorbed the words.

"I managed a Gentleman's C," Cooper added. "Perfectly acceptable, unless you're expected to take over the family business. That C was my ticket to freedom, Kurt. But Blaine, that's another story."

It was in high school that Blaine's once-reverential view of his parents began to shift and disintegrate, Cooper explained. He was class president, and had the grades, test scores and family legacy to pretty much name his Ivy League ticket.

"And then he came out," Kurt said.

"Well, yeah, he did. But no, that's not what it was about. They had a tough time with the news at first. Dad didn't understand, but they didn't fight him on it. The fallout wasn't about being gay.

"It was college," Cooper continued. "It was college, and the trust fund, and expectations and what Blaine did to chart his own course. It was about pulling a fast one. I love my brother, but let's be clear: they didn't throw him out. He walked out. He had his reasons, but it was his call. And it shaped everything he is today."

"I don't follow you."

"It was supposed to be Blaine."

"What?"

"I got written off early on. I didn't have the chops or ambition to inherit it all. I can throw a helluva party, and I can attract clients, but I'm not the big picture guy."

"And Blaine was..." Kurt mumbled.

"And Blaine _is_ , but only on his own terms. Blaine was one of those kids. He could do anything: math, science, languages, you name it. It came naturally to him. And he was being groomed to step in where my dad planned to leave off when he retired, but Blaine wanted nothing to do with it. He told them that he wanted to study music and then, _boom._ "

Kurt was silenced, trying to put the bits and pieces of Blaine's background into place, those pieces Blaine hadn't shared with him. And as Cooper talked, he drew a more complete picture of Blaine than Blaine himself had ever offered.

"Boom?" Kurt asked.

"The beginning of the end, Kurt. They wanted him to go to Harvard for business school, or maybe Yale. Music was out of the question if he wanted them to pay for college. So when he finally said he was accepting Cornell for chemistry, they figured it was a win because it was at least Ivy League, and science.

"But he became a winemaker."

"Mmhmm. He met the conditions of his trust fund and ran."

"So he did all that so he wouldn't have to work for your dad? There's got to be more to it than that."

"Let's just say that things happened, and Blaine felt it validated everything he did. And he may be right. But if he told you he was cut off because he came out, well, no. If anything, over time, they seemed to think it was kind of — I don't know, fashionable? — to have a gay son."

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes. 

"Look, Kurt, Blaine didn't want the life that had been planned for him. He saw things that he didn't like, and he wanted something simpler. He resented having his life dictated to him, that he'd be cut off if he followed his dream — so he beat them at their own game."

Kurt stopped and thought back to those early conversations, when he and Blaine unexpectedly bonded as Kurt tried to learn more about him, and convince him to participate in _Taste_ Magazine's first major wine competition. Blaine had talked about his family, briefly, and mentioned his family's initial discomfort with news of his sexuality. He'd spoken of the broken ties, and accommodating the requirements of his trust so he could set up a new life in a new location, making a silky Syrah that tasted like poetry.

But he had never explicitly said that his family kicked him out, or cut him off. And Kurt had never questioned it.

"His instincts were right, as it turned out," Cooper added nonchalantly.

"What do you mean?"

"He didn't tell you?"

"It seems there are a lot of things he hasn't told me," Kurt said.

Cooper hesitated for a moment, watching skaters circle clockwise around the rink.

"Let's just say, you can build empires, but how you maintain them determines whether they're built to last."

Kurt sighed.

"There are moments, Cooper, when you're almost as vexing as your brother."

"I just think Blaine needs to fill in the blanks, Kurt. And besides," he said, the megawatt smile returning, "I like to leave an air of mystery. Now, tell me again how this relates to your marriage?"

"I think I'm just starting to figure that out, Coop."

Kurt didn't know whether to feel sympathetic or angry. Blaine had cut himself off from his family in order to give himself a chance at happiness, but he had also clearly already cut Kurt out of this part of his life, somehow not trusting him with the pieces of his background that defined him.

And he had continued to do that, even after they had married.

And as much as he knew he loved Blaine, he also was beginning to wonder whether this was the foundation for a relationship that was built to last.

****

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks as always to iconicklaine, whose sense of direction surpasses Google Maps; and to both randomactsofdouchebaggery and justusunicorns, who navigate through a minefield of commas en pointe. Thanks also to buckeyegrrl, for keepin' it pretty.


	9. Chapter 9

Blaine crammed three days of work into one, making room in his schedule so he could dedicate 48 hours to doing nothing. Specifically, he wanted to spend 48 hours doing nothing and _everything_ with his husband, who was due to return from the east coast in just under 24 hours.

It had been six days since Kurt left for New York, and Blaine felt an even greater void than he had expected, more pronounced than the handful of times Kurt had hit the road without him.

 _You could have gone,_ he told himself. _Days on your own, nights with your husband. A chance to keep things in check. You idiot._

It was too late to do anything about it, of course, but the daily texts and calls and occasional Skype sessions — even the one a few nights ago, the one that ended in sweat, and come, and breathless encouragement for _more_ and _faster_ — did little to alter his frame of mind.

With only a day left before Kurt's return, he threw himself into work — killing the hours, avoiding the trade associations and competitors and friends with agendas that had become such distractions in his life.

He cleaned an already spotless house. He cut fresh flowers from a garden so warmed by sunshine that it failed to recognize it should not be blooming. He wrapped a gift he had bought after seeing it in a thrift store window earlier in the week, buying it for no reason other than it just _seemed right._

But he spent the bulk of his day working alongside the vineyard crew, cutting back spent Syrah vines into row-upon-row of parallel T's, preparing them for the next year's growth.

He held back good stock, snipping tendrils away, leaving little more than a foot or two of stick that he submerged in a jug of water in the back of his truck, then dipped in root starter and stuck alongside dozens of other similarly-sized sticks in plastic pots of mulch. In a few months, the rooted stick would bud out and become the starter shoots for the last acres of Rhapsody's expansion.

Even with Ranchera and Banda music blasting from the vineyard crew’s truck, Blaine found a rare sense of peace on the hillside, the sort of private moment he once considered routine that allowed him to clear his head — and that had evaporated in the wake of his post- _Taste_ Challenge notoriety.

He drove the pots down to the barn, where they would make their home for the next several months, connected to a lifeline of drip irrigation and soaking up the sunshine off the structure's west-facing wall.

By mid-afternoon, he had sequestered himself in the cave — a cool, stone-lined room carved into a hillside used for storing and aging wines not yet ready for distribution. He reorganized cases of young reds — the _Mezzo, Appassionato_ and _Sotto Voce_ — to clear room for the next round of freshly bottled wine.

The work was in keeping with his mood — a chance to get tasks done, stay ahead of schedule, and not bother with the outside world. It was just himself, his thoughts and a few thousand cases of wine, occasionally supervised by a curious sheepdog. And his thoughts were squarely aimed at getting enough work done so he wouldn’t have to concentrate on the winery for a few days.

With the help of a hydraulic cart, he shifted palates around the softly lit subterranean room.  In the distance, he could hear a vehicle come to a stop on the road. It idled briefly — _probably the guys wrapping up for the day_ — and continued on. Minutes later, he heard footsteps at the cave entrance, and thought little of it.

"Hey, Manny,” Blaine called out without turning around. “What time are you and the guys going to get here tomorrow? 'Cause I'll be in the city picking up Kurt."

"Oh, I don't think that will be necessary," a soft voice said behind him.

Blaine turned, his face quizzical, then bright. Leaning against the door was an unmistakable figure backlit by the afternoon sun — all broad shoulders, lean hips and impossibly tall hair.

"Kurt?"

"I was looking for the owner, but I bumped into the crew and they told me ' _Rhapsody's private_ '."

Blaine tried hard to bite back his smile.

"How did you talk them into letting you down here?" he said, playing along.

Kurt moved slowly across the room, hands clasped behind his back, like a skater taking a slow warm-up lap. As far as Blaine was concerned, that walk was one of the sexiest things he’d ever seen.

"Well, I told them that I had an offer the owner couldn't refuse," Kurt said, nudging in close to Blaine.

"Like the Godfather?"

Kurt brushed his hand along the soft placket of Blaine's denim shirt, circling each button.

"Think of it as a proposition,” he said. “And I told the crew that I bet they would be able to take tomorrow morning off if the owner accepted."

He leaned in closer, brushing the tips of their noses, and then resting their cheeks together.

“They seemed to be persuaded by that,” he whispered in Blaine’s ear.

"You can be _very_ persuasive," Blaine said, closing his eyes.

"You have _no idea,"_ Kurt said. His lips lingered at Blaine’s ear lobe, leaving a ghosted breath across Blaine’s neck.

Blaine leaned back, jutting his neck forward _just enough_ to capture Kurt’s lips, which drew a moist trail down Blaine’s neck, across his clavicle and back up a centered line from Adam’s apple to chin, pausing before lips finally met lips.

"I sure hope you're the owner, because otherwise my efforts will have been wasted."

"I'd hardly say that," Blaine said, erupting in a grin, cupping Kurt's cheeks with his hands and kissing him firmly. "Welcome home."

"Mmmm. So good to be back," Kurt said, sinking into the kiss.

They lingered in their embrace; dotting lips to cheeks, soft exhales to eyelids, tongues to necks. “So glad you’re home,” Blaine said between kisses. “But how did you…”

"Missed you," Kurt interrupted. He reached around Blaine’s waist and pulled him close. "Worth the change fee."

"I missed you, too," Blaine murmured, "but maybe we should go to the house?"

"Here's fine," Kurt said, his voice growing gravelly. He slid his thigh snugly between Blaine’s legs and then his hands dipped lower, grabbing Blaine’s ass and pulling him closer still.

“But the guys…”

"Are gone for the day," Kurt whispered. "I told you… I let them go. Not back 'til mid-day tomorrow."

His hands began to meander freely — touching Blaine’s waist, caressing his stomach and fumbling with the buttons on his shirt.

Blaine felt his senses overloading with touch, scent, and taste. But instead of falling into it completely, his mind focused on being unprepared for Kurt’s early arrival. There was work to finish, sheets to change, mental preparations to secure. His mind wasn’t ready for this, but his body didn’t care.

“Kurt...”

Kurt leaned into Blaine, pushing him against the cases stacked against the wall. "Sshh. Talk later," he said, pulling back just enough to get both his hands at Blaine's shirt, unbuttoning it rapidly, then moving down until he reached he waistband of Blaine's well-worn jeans.

He popped the button, then let his fingers drift across Blaine's crotch — outlining his cock, straining for a zipper that wasn't there.

"Oh, somebody went old school today," Kurt said, grinning.

"Hmm?"

"My, how I do love an old pair of 501s."

"My work jeans —"

"Call 'em what you will. I just have a fine appreciation for a pair of shrink-to-fit button fly Levis."

Kurt kissed Blaine insistently, tasting the sweaty salt from his neck.

"I want to blow you right here. And then we can go up to the house, and take this to the bedroom. And if we have the energy after that, you can make me dinner, and we can talk about my trip. But what I really want right now is my mouth on you. Is that okay?"

Blaine leaned his head back, eyes closed, and nodded.

“Yes.”

Kurt dropped to his knees.

Button by button, he opened Blaine’s jeans with anxious hands, pulling them down just a few inches. Just enough.

Eyes closed, he dusted the length of Blaine’s cock with the tip of his nose, breathing in the musky scent. He followed with his lips, the same trail, lingering at the head. He hooked his thumbs into either side of the blue briefs and pulled them down slowly to join the jeans along Blaine’s thighs.

The sudden chill caused Blaine to gasp, and reach for Kurt, catching him by his hair and pulling him close.

Kurt kissed the base of Blaine’s cock, reveling in it. He traced the solid vein from base to head, then ran it firmly along the slit. And then he took him in his mouth, slowly, teasingly — a brief suck, only to pull off with a kiss.

“Kurt, please. It’s cold in here.”

Blaine could hear Kurt snicker, and opened his eyes to see him flash a wicked smile before taking Blaine fully into his mouth. Kurt reached around Blaine’s hips as if to give him a cue, pulling him deeper, then pushing him away as he sucked. He had to repeat the move only once before Blaine caught on, gripping Kurt’s head for leverage.

“Fuck… Kurt… faster.”

He could feel Kurt smile around his cock.

“Not funny, Kurt.”

Kurt worked him harder, reaching a hand around the base of Blaine’s cock, adding a stroke as he focused on the head. All the while, he seemed to stifle chuckles as Blaine babbled and moaned.

“Close, Kurt. _Kurt_ …"

He felt the tightness build, almost too fast. He came before Kurt could pull off, though Kurt showed little sign of wanting that. They remained frozen for moments after he came — Blaine unsteady on his feet, and Kurt easing Blaine from his mouth as he came down from his high.

Blaine rolled his head back, resting it against the stacked boxes, his body gone limp. He closed his eyes and let a satisfied smile sweep over his lips.

“You have the happiest orgasm face I’ve ever seen,” Kurt said. “Not that I’ve seen that many…”

Blaine opened one eye, raising an eyebrow in judgmental doubt.

“Of course not. God, Kurt, if I knew that’s what coming home did to you, I would have encouraged you to travel more often. Come here.”

With a groan and some help from Blaine’s extended hand, Kurt rose to his feet. He reached down to help Blaine pull his briefs and jeans back up, and then carefully rebuttoned the fly for him.

“What about you?” Blaine asked. “I feel a little selfish here.”

“Back at the house,” Kurt said with a brief kiss. “If we go for round two here, I may never be able to drag your ass back home.”

Kurt rested their foreheads together, and took Blaine’s hand. Besides, it’s about to get dark out, and we have a lot of catching up to do.”

****

Hours later, they found themselves unwilling to concede a need to eat, to get up, to shower — choosing instead to tangle feet and fingers, to keep their bodies close even if their thoughts were far apart.

The bedroom was awash in the orange and purple hues of the day becoming night. Blaine stretched out on his back, eyes half-closed. Kurt curled into his side, his hand on Blaine's chest, a pillow for his chin as he watched his husband struggle to stay awake.

"You're watching me again, aren't you?" Blaine mumbled without bothering to open his eyes. "Go to sleep."

"It's too early to sleep," Kurt said. "We should eat­… and talk."

Blaine opened his eyes for a moment, looking at the ceiling, then silently rolled his head away to one side.

“Mmm. Must we?”

"Blaine?"

"Mmm."

"You awake?"

"I am now."

Kurt drew soft, aimless patterns across Blaine's chest with his fingers. It was a habit that usually left him calm and sated.

“It’s been quite a week,” Kurt said.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I had a lot of meetings.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Of course, there was the meeting with Quinn.”

“Hmm.”

“Do you want to hear about it?”

"What about it?"

"I just thought we should talk," Kurt said, "about _Taste._ "

"What haven't we talked about? You went. Quinn wants you back. It would be an even heavier workload than before. What else?"

"She wants to reboot the wine section."

"So you've said."

"With more writers."

"That someone has to manage."

"Yes," Kurt said. "And hire."

"Did you tell her 'no'?" Blaine asked.

Kurt paused, his hands still drifting across skin.

"Not exactly."

Blaine opened his eyes.

"Kurt?"

The room was silent. Blaine turned his head back, looking at Kurt.

_"You didn't agree, did you?"_

Blaine sat up abruptly, adjusting a pillow to prop himself up. Kurt took his hand, using his thumb to rub circles on Blaine's palm. He took a moment, before he spoke.

"Before I left, you asked if I was happy. You’ve asked it a lot, in a lot of different ways. And I didn't think much of it, other than I had this wonderful husband who just wanted me to be happy, so I just kept answering the same way: _Of course I am. Of course_.

"But you kept asking the same question, and I kept answering the same way and I didn't realize until this week that maybe we had the wrong question and the wrong answer."

Blaine blinked, his forehead creased in confusion and tension.

"Blaine, it's not about whether I'm happy. It's about whether I'm complete. We jumped into this so fast, and for me, it was like being up here," Kurt said, raising a hand far above his head. "And jumping without a parachute. I have this _great_ life, in this beautiful place, with this incredible man... but it's not _my_ life, not completely."

"Yes it is..."

"No, it's _yours_. I'm part of your life, and a big part of it. I know that, just as you are mine. But when I stopped and thought about it, I realized that I'm part of this larger whole for you — the vineyard, the wine, the business, the marriage. But for me, it's _all_ about you. The work I am doing all revolves around you, and Rhapsody, and this life — _this wonderful life_ _—_ but there's nothing in it that's uniquely mine."

Blaine stared at Kurt, as if looking intently would somehow help him comprehend words he was having difficulty following. Kurt’s hold on his hand tightened.

"I'm not saying this right, I know. _I love you_. My heart is full, but my life isn't. I'm happy with you. But I'm not sure I'm happy with _me_. Everything I do revolves around your business and your home and your troubles, and I'm here to support you, but I had a career that I'd built, that I succeeded on my own and it's gone now."

"It didn't have to be," Blaine said.

"It _doesn't_ have to be," Kurt added.

"What are you saying? Are you thinking about taking Quinn up on this?"

"I'm thinking that I should consider it, or that I at least need to figure this out. I think _we_ need to figure it out, together. We both know I'm no winemaker, and I haven't done much of anything about rebuilding my career. And I need to."

Blaine said nothing, but his pulse quickened and his breath felt heavy, labored.

"This affects you too, Blaine. And you know it. You've been moody and unpredictable lately, and it all seems to come back to this."

"That's not true."

"I know you have other pressures. I know you have things that are bothering you, but they're materializing here, with us. I want to help. I want to understand why these things eat at you the way they do. And I realized that I don't, that there's a big part of my husband's character that's still kind of a mystery to me.

"So I went to see Cooper."

"What does my brother have to do with this?”

"I went to see Cooper because I thought maybe he could help me understand you better. _I want to understand you better._ That’s the thing, Blaine. I realized that I don’t understand you the way I should.But what I found out is that my husband has left some big gaps in his history, even with me."

The room was cast in the darkened shadows of twilight. Neither had made an effort to turn on a light, and neither would.

“So, what did he tell you? What great mystery did he unlock?”

“No great mystery, Blaine. He did tell me a version of your college history that was a bit more — detailed — than what you’d shared with me. And he said there were other things about your family that you should tell me.”

"There are some things I don't talk about," Blaine said.

"I'm your husband. If you can't talk to me..."

"Things that are in the past are in the past, Kurt. I don't dwell on them."

"I don't think that's true at all," Kurt said. "If you're going to marry someone, don't you think you should trust them enough to tell them who you are?"

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks for the patience of talented friends, who complained not a bit when they got a chapter late, only to get a revision that was more new chapter than edited text. Iconicklaine, justusunicorns and randomactsofdouchebaggery, thank you! And continued thanks to Buckeyegrrl for her lovely, lovely cover art.
> 
>  
> 
> With the return of Glee next week, Coda will post on Wednesdays starting on Feb. 26th. Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

Eyes open and alert, Blaine watched the walls as they began to emerge from the shadows, the earliest slips of morning light creeping through the window blinds. He had been awake for hours and needed to move.

He extricated himself from Kurt's arms, like an intricate game of Twister, and eased himself out of bed.

He froze for a moment when he heard Kurt's breathing hitch, but it evened out moments later. Kurt was exhausted, and sleeping soundly, oblivious to the movement in the room.

Convinced that Kurt was soundly back to sleep, Blaine slipped on a pair of jeans and an old Cornell t-shirt, pulled his phone from the nightstand charger and tiptoed down the stairs. He crept into the kitchen, reaching quietly for some ground coffee and brewed a pot.

He let his eyes glaze over a bit, watching the drip, his mind drifting to no place in particular. Once he could fill a mug, he carried it on to the veranda, where he curled into a rocker, hands wrapped around the steaming mug, a [cantata playing softly](http://www.scarvesandcoffee.net/Bernard%20Labadie%20-%20Apollo%20e%20Dafne,%20HWV%20122:%20Aria:%20Felicissima%20quest'alma%20\(Most%20fortunate%20is%20this%20soul\)%20\(Dafne\)) from a Bluetooth speaker.

He hovered his face over the coffee's steam, staring out on the hills and the hint of a sun about to rise. He looked at the nearby vines that Kurt had decorated for the holidays before he left for New York. He had set a timer to let the lights run for six hours, but in his absence, Blaine had surprised himself by resetting them to run from dusk to dawn.

Cradling the coffee mug, he waited for the lights to shut off, watching the dawn spill soft pink shadows across the valley, across the oaks and trellised vines, diffused by the fading remnants of evening fog.

The veranda was Blaine's spot for quiet and peace, where he would go to sit, reflect and drink whatever felt right for the particular moment, and watch the sky transition from bright blue to deep indigo and back again.

And today was no different. If he was to be honest with himself, it was his escape. 

 _God, what are you doing, Anderson? You missed him. He's in your bed. He loves you._  

Blaine sipped his coffee and shut his eyes, soaking in the lighter-than-air trill of the soprano.

_He wants more. Why won't you give it?_

In the distance, coyotes howled as they ended their evening pursuits.

_I've given him more than I've given anyone._

A floorboard creaked behind him.

A hand caressed his shoulder, folding dn across his chest. A breath dusted his cheek, lips to ear.

"Aren't you cold out here?"

"The coffee's hot."

"Your cup's empty."

Kurt stood behind the chair and wrapped an arm around Blaine's shoulder, sharing the blanket he had pulled around himself.

" _Opera?_ "

"Handel," Blaine said.

"I don't think I've ever heard you listen to opera before."

"It happens."

Kurt tipped his head against Blaine's, touching their temples.

"Come back to bed," he whispered.

"I didn't want to wake you," Blaine said.

"I'm awake. Come back to bed. There's no work to do today, no reason to be up watching the sunrise by yourself."

"It's a pretty sunrise."

Kurt looked up, and took in the open tableau that seemed to be the object of Blaine's attention.

"A solid eight," he said. " _Come back to bed._  I'm freezing. Pajama pants and a quilt just aren't going to cut it out here."

"You want breakfast?"

"I want my husband to come back to bed and keep me warm."

"Breakfast in bed?"

"Okay, maybe I could be convinced."

Kurt nuzzled at his cheek, grinning.

"Kurt?"

"Hmm?"

"Would it be okay if we just took a day off today?" Blaine asked.

"I thought we were doing that."

Blaine set his coffee cup down and turned, directing his attention fully on Kurt. He reached for the hand splayed across his upper chest, wrapping it in his own.

"I mean a day off - from  _everything_. No work. No big decisions. No complications. Just... can we take a day?"

Blaine knew he sometimes had a difficult time conveying emotion.  _He knew that_. He wasn't one to wear emotions on his sleeve.  So he compensated by concentrating on his words, trying to connect with Kurt through the weary tone of his voice and the focused eye contact the fact that he was, indeed, serious about a day of nothing.

Kurt nodded. "Of course. Of course we can," he said, giving their entwined hands a squeeze.

Blaine stood, and reached to shut down the speaker and the phone before reaching for Kurt's hand.

"No," Kurt said. "Bring it along."

They climbed the stairs and peeled off layers and curled in to each other, face to face. They stayed that way for close to an hour, occasionally reaching up to bruh a wisp of hair away from a face, or to caress a particularly pronounced line of muscle.

Mostly, however, they were silent, absorbing the sounds of the [soft flute and effortless soprano](http://www.scarvesandcoffee.net/Bernard%20Labadie%20-%20Apollo%20e%20Dafne,%20HWV%20122:%20Aria:%20Come%20in%20ciel%20benigna%20stella%20\(As%20Neptune's%20star%20in%20heaven\)%20\(Dafne\)).

"What is this?" he finally asked.

"Handel,  _Apollo e Dafne,_ " Blaine said. "Too much for you?"

"No, it's beautiful," Kurt said. "So it's like the Bernini?"

"Mmmhmm, the same story as the statue. Apollo has just vanquished Python and is a bit arrogant. He claims that not even Cupid's arrow can defeat him - he's wrong, of course - and then he sees Dafne."

"Uh oh."

"Yes," Blaine said, absent-mindedly skating his fingers up Kurt's arm. "She's beautiful, and not receptive, and Apollo is determined to have her. But Dafne will have none of it. She pleads for freedom from Apollo's advances, and is turned into a laurel tree. He waters the tree with his tears, and crowns champions with crowns made of the laurel's leaves."

"And the Olympics were born?" Kurt said, planting a playful kiss on Blaine's nose.

"Something like that," he said.

"Hmm. Hell of a way to ditch a date."

Blaine sighed, and let his face drop slightly, as if deep in thought.

"I think the moral of the story is more along the lines that you can't force love," he said.

Kurt cupped Blaine's cheek with his hand. He traced Blaine's hairline with his fingertips, the touch and the movement bringing Blaine back to the moment, back to the bed. 

"Drifting off somewhere?" Kurt asked.

Blaine smiled, just slightly, but said nothing.

"Come back to me. Or at least let me come along with you."

"Just listening to the music."

"I'd never seen opera in your playlists," Kurt said. "And I kind of had you down as a blues man."

"Do you like it?"

"It's beautiful. I don't understand a word of it, but it's beautiful," Kurt said.

"Doesn't matter. Go to the opera, and they project an English translation over the stage. We should go sometime. San Francisco's a decent opera town."

Kurt's hand drifted down Blaine's neck, along his shoulder, drawing soft patterns on his skin.

"This is a side of you I've never seen before. Who is this opera fan I've married?"

Blaine leaned in to Kurt's touch, ghosting a light kiss to his lips.

"Same guy I've always been, just with an expanded playlist."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Kurt said. "Opera isn't Top 40. You don't just flip on the radio and say, ‘Oh, I think I'll sing along to a little Wagner today.'"

"Ugh. Not Wagner..."

"Whatever," Kurt said, beginning to press. "Where did you develop this appreciation for divas that aren't wearing six-inch platforms?"

"They could be..." Blaine said.

"Come on. What's up with the opera?"

"I thought you liked it."

"I do, but I just wanted to know..."

"Fine, fine." Blaine rolled on to his back, pulling and arm behind his head and settling into the pillows. "My mother loves opera. Her mother loved opera. I heard a lot of opera growing up. Some of it stuck, I guess."

Kurt smiled - a victory smile. "Now that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Why do I get a feeling this isn't about Handel?" Blaine said, feigning annoyance.

"I'm always pleasantly surprised when my husband reveals something new about himself."

"Oh please - are we really going there?"

"Blaine Anderson, man of mystery..."

" _Hummel_ -Anderson."

"...or Anderson-Hummel."

"Whatever."

"My point being, that my husband dos not always go to great lengths to fill in the blanks, and I'm delighted when he does - even if it's something as seemingly trivial as his ever-surprising taste in music," Kurt said.

Blaine sat up in bed, no longer amused. He reached over to the phone and shut off the music. Kurt had finally pushed that button one too many times.

"And, we've gone there. I thought we were taking a day off. No pressure, no big decisions, no big questions. But here we go again. I don't get it. I don't see what the big deal is. I realize I don't talk about my parents much. I don't have the best relationship with them. You know that. I've told you that,  _countless times._ And now apparently, Cooper's told you that, too. What else do you need to know, other than it's something I'd rather not talk about?"

Kurt's eyes narrowed that the sudden change in tone, and he matched it, syllable for caustic syllable.

"You just don't get it, do you? It's one thing to keep the world at arm's length. It's another to do that to the person you're married to."

"You can't force these things, Kurt."

"Or what? You'll turn into a laurel tree?"

Blaine threw back the cover and sat up on the edge of the bed. He grabbed his jeans and a shirt, put them on quickly and silently and walked to the door. He paused at the threshold, his back to Kurt.

"I, um... I need to step out for a while."

He left before Kurt could say anything, before Kurt had seen that in his haste to grab his car keys, he had left his phone behind.

 

****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks as always to my partners in crime, who have yet to openly complain about my somewhat loose interpretation of things like "time" and "deadlines": iconicklaine, justusunicorns and randomactsofdouchebaggery. Thanks, too, to buckeyegrrl for the fantastic cover art. Bless 'em all.


	11. Chapter 11

_Sniff._

Blaine had tucked himself into a corner booth at the Plaza Boulangerie with a dark, black coffee and an untouched croissant long before the line of waking tourists had formed.

He had enough on his mind to let it clutter and block itself out, allowing him to sit there, aimlessly watching birds scavenge for worms and picnic remains in the heart of Sonoma Square.

“You stink.”

_Sniff sniff._

“Seriously, Anderson. I get the whole _man smell,_ but this is a whole new level of…”

Blaine looked up and tilted his head slightly, the face staring at him scarcely registering. The thigh-high boots and Burberry trench threw him for a moment.

“Oh. Santana. Isn’t it a little early for you?”

Santana Lopez may have lived and worked in the middle of an agricultural district, but she routinely dressed for Union, not Sonoma, Square — dressing to impress even when there was no one on the horizon worth impressing.

“Pre-office caffeine fix. What’s your excuse?” she said, a little more than her usual morning edge to her voice. “You know, I’d swear that’s sex hair except I know your boy isn’t due back ‘til this afternoon, and that rumpled shirt says _bender_.”

Blaine waited a moment before answering.

“He’s home.”

Santana’s eyes grew large.

“Oh?” she asked. “ _Oooh._ ” She peeled off her coat and settled into the seat across from Blaine. “What happened, pobrecito?”

Blaine chewed on his lip and shook his head. He set his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together until he could rest his chin on his thumbs. He sat quietly for a moment, thinking.

“This isn’t the way it was supposed to be,” he said quietly. “Every day is... It’s just a struggle, every goddamned day. We have a good moment, but then something falls apart. Then it starts all over again. I love him. I can’t imagine being without him, but we never seem to find… balance.”

Santana set her jaw and narrowed her eyes, looking for all the world like she was giving Blaine’s words deep, serious consideration. She looked that way right up until the point when laughter bubbled up from her gut. She threw her head back and rolled her eyes.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she said, sputtering out the words. “ _Balance?_ Is that what this ‘woe is me’ crap is all about?”

“Santana, this isn’t a joke,” Blaine hissed. “”It’s like we’re completely out of sync.”

“Welcome to marriage, Mr. Hummel-Anderson.”

Blaine looked dumfounded, silenced by Santana’s mirth. She reached across the table and grabbed his coffee cup, sneaking a slurp.

“Ugh! It’s cold. I need a minute.”

She strutted up to the coffee bar, ordered two large skinny lattes and returned before Blaine could steel himself against her verbal onslaught.

“There we are. Much better — where were we?” She blew at her coffee absent-mindedly. “Oh yeah — _you’re an idiot.”_

Blaine rubbed at his temple. “You make the world a beautiful place, you know,” he said caustically.

Santana reached across the table and slapped him lightly upside the head.

“Get over yourself. You want to know what marriage looks like? It’s ugly, my friend. It’s ugly and it’s work. It’s not all romance and hot ass. You gonna eat this?” she asked, reaching for his untouched croissant before he could answer. She turned it over in her hands, looking for an end seam to tug at 

“My parents were married over 30 years when mom died. During the day it was all ‘yes, dear’ and ‘no, dear,’ but after we went to bed at night we could hear them fight like cats and dogs, and over stupid shit: taking out the trash, forgetting to pick up milk at the market, the old truck with the funky transmission, why Tía Sofia had to visit as often as she did. Stuff like that. All the damn time.”

“Not all marriages are like that,” Blaine mumbled.

“I’m not done,” Santana continued, pausing only long enough to nibble at the pastry.

“When my mom died, Papi was heartbroken; he didn’t know what to do without her. It’s like his spirit was gone. He was quiet, and my Papi was _not_ a quiet man. He cried sometimes — in front of us. He never did that before. Then he started to lose weight. A little over a year later, he was gone. My brothers and me, we didn’t realize how close our parents were until that.”

Blaine looked up to her, concern creasing his forehead.

“See, Blaine? The fights? They’re part of the deal. It’s hard. It’s _supposed to be hard._ It doesn’t mean it’s not good. So when the really tough stuff happens, you know you’ve got someone who’s got your back. My folks? They knew that.”

She peeled another layer of croissant, inspecting it momentarily before popping it in her mouth.  She washed it down with a slurp of coffee and took Blaine’s hand.

“Now, I don’t know what problems you think the two of you’re having, but sometimes problems aren’t really problems. They’re just… Monday, you know? And you have to talk and sometimes you have to fight, but at least then you have an excuse for makeup sex.”

Santana waggled her eyebrows. Blaine finally exhaled, and allowed himself a brief chuckle.

“Thank you, Doctor Lopez.”

“I’ll send you my bill. Better yet, you can pay me back by letting me put you on the Bureau ballot.”

“No.”

“Come on, Blaine. You know it has to be you. Everybody’s talking ‘Rhapsody this’ and ‘Anderson that’ since that contest,” Santana pleaded. “You and Rhapsody raised this valley’s stock.”

Blaine shot her a withering glance, and shook his head no.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” he said. “If it’s about leadership, I already do plenty around here — and you know it. I don’t need the ceremonial stuff. I don’t want it.”

“But you guys have sort of become the face of Sonoma winemaking…”

“Us guys?” Blaine said. His eyes came to life, darting around the room. He brought his hand to his mouth, and then looked up at Santana, looking like a kid about to make serious mischief. “This board spot doesn’t have to be the winemaker, right? Just someone representing the winery.”

“The owner would be nice,” Santana said. “Oh.

“ _Ooh_.”

****

Hours later, Blaine was greeted with a scowl as he stumbled through the front door, juggling grocery bags and a dozen red roses.

Kurt stood at the far end of the room, near the kitchen— his arms folded, his eyes red, his demeanor chilly.

“You left your phone behind,” he said, his voice flat. “I called all over looking for you.”

“I’m sorry,” Blaine said.

He set the bags down on the entry table and stepped toward Kurt.

“Where were you?”

Kurt folded his body in on itself, uninviting to contact.

“I just needed to be by myself for awhile. I’m sorry.”

Blaine tentatively stepped closer.

“Santana called a couple of hours ago. She said she’d seen you.”

“Yes.”

“She was surprised you weren’t back yet. Where _were_ you? You worried me.”

“Nothing to worry about. I just had some things to do.”

He stepped closer still, ducking his head slightly, a move that normally looked shy, but in the moment simply read _guilty._

“Things to do? On the day that we were _just going to be_?” Kurt said, the words biting.

Blaine stopped in front of him. Kurt, normally all pomade and polish, look haggard and exhausted.

“Can we put these in water and maybe put the groceries away? Then we’ll talk, I promise,” Blaine said, handing him the flowers.

Kurt nodded, took the bouquet and turned toward the kitchen to look for a vase.

“Get the groceries,” he said without looking back.

****

Blaine sat cross-legged, back against the couch, fumbling with a rubber band he had found on the floor. He didn’t raise his eyes.

Kurt kept his distance. From his chair several feet away, he alternated between  glaring at Blaine and staring off at the Christmas tree when he needed a distraction.

“So, you want to explain this?”

“I just snapped,” Blaine answered.

“I noticed.”

“I just felt you’d pushed too…”

“This is _my_ fault?"

“I’m not saying that, Kurt. I just wanted a day with no pressure, and then there were questions, and…”

“You just snapped.”

“Yeah.”

They sat in silence, neither quite ready with the right words to move forward.

“Kurt?”

“Yeah?”

Blaine took a breath, and marshaled his strength for a question he didn’t want to ask.

“Are you thinking about taking that job?”

Kurt’s jaw dropped, just a little, just enough to give Blaine an _areyoucrazy_ look.

“Is that what this is about? Really? Have I ever said that I was going to do that? That I was taking it seriously?”

“You never said you weren’t, Kurt. You said it was a good opportunity, but I don’t know if you’ve said yes or no, or if you said anything at all.”

“No, I’m not taking the job. Yes, it’s a good opportunity. Yes, I miss work. And yeah, I kind of miss the city sometimes, but you know what, Blaine? This is my home — here, with you. And you know what else? This isn’t the first time I’ve told you. So I think the real question is, when are you going to believe me?”

The news may have been good, may have been what Blaine wanted to hear, but the words were delivered with enough heat to render him mute.

“What were you thinking, storming off like that? Not coming back for hours? Not letting me know you were okay? What was I supposed to think? After I reached Santana, I nearly called the police I was so worried.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I got that.”

“Can I explain?” Blaine asked.

“I’ve been waiting for months…”

Blaine straightened out his legs, stretching his toes out and leaning his head back against the cushion, while he gathered his thoughts.

“This has been such an adjustment,” he said. “You know — us, marriage. So much of this came together so easily that when we hit a bump, I didn’t know what to do — except what I normally do.”

“Which is?” Kurt asked.

Blaine scratched at his temple, running a hand through his hair. “Keep it to myself, I guess. Let it roll by, duck and cover.”

Kurt shook his head in disbelief.

“Why would you do that? I’m your husband.”

Blaine shrugged, and looked down.

“Because that’s how I’ve always gotten by, I guess.”

“That’s what your brother says, by the way,” Kurt said, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. “Why don’t you ever talk about them?”

“Kurt…”

Kurt leaned in, intent, resting his weight forward, elbows to knees, focused on Blaine.

“I’m not asking you to mend fences. I’m sure you have your reasons. I just want to hear them, and more importantly, to know why you seem to feel you can’t talk to me about it.”

“I don’t talk about it with anyone,” Blaine said briskly.

“You told me some of it, you know, when we first met, and when I had to write that column about you. But you left things out, didn’t you?”

Blaine pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs. But he said nothing.

Kurt rose from his chair and crossed the room, sliding to the floor alongside him.

“You can tell me,” he said quietly.

Blaine looked up. His eyes, usually bright and full of life, looked swollen and dull.

“This” he said, looking around the room, “this wasn’t supposed to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know I didn’t go to school to study winemaking, not originally.”

“You changed majors, I know. You told me about the conditions of your trust. You met them.”

“In the eyes of the attorneys, I met my obligations. In the eyes of my family, I cheated them out of their money. All except Cooper. He understood.”

Slowly, Blaine found his words and his confidence. He let the story spill out, of a coddled childhood, the best schools, of plans for his future that never belonged to him, of a way out that weighed on his conscience years after his decision had been made.

“I was supposed to be Sebastian Smythe,” Blaine said, nodding absently.

“What do you mean?”

“In some ways, Sebastian and I aren’t so different. We went to the best schools. He had an education that was all about being groomed to take over his family business. That was me, too. If it’d been up to my dad, I would have gone to business school, or law school, or gotten a degree in economics. That’s the son my parents wanted — driven, ambitious — ready to rule the world.”

“You’re driven.”

“Not like him. Not like Sebastian. That’s where we part ways.”

“You wanted to go into music back then…”

“Yeah, I did. And in hindsight, they were probably right. It was foolish. What kind of career would I have had? Maybe they saved me from myself. I was a good student, did well in math and science. But I loved the arts. I excelled in science, but I loved the arts. They told me if I wanted to go to college for a silly dream, then I could foot the bill myself. But science? Math? Something _respectable?_ They’d cut the check for that.”

“You met their terms, Blaine. Why are you acting like you’re so ashamed of this?”

“I didn’t want that life. I didn’t. But I didn’t have the balls to stand up for myself, to say no. I wanted my life.”

Keeping his hands folded together in his lap, Kurt leaned gently into Blaine, nudging shoulders. “What’s wrong with that?”

“I wanted the money, too.” Blaine turned his head to look at Kurt. “I’m no saint.”

Kurt reached for his hand, holding it lightly, softly tracing a pattern across Blaine’s knuckles.

“You don’t take over a pharmaceutical company with a degree in oenology and viticulture, Kurt. So they challenged my claim to my trust. The arbitrator sided with me. I got my money. I moved here.

“My father sees what I did with that trust as dishonest, deceitful. My mom thought I was being rebellious. I saw it as a ticket out of a life someone else was trying to plan for me. That company? My grandfather started it. He was a doctor who stumbled across a new drug. He traded in his practice for a lab, and built a company. When he retired, my dad took over and took it public. I was the heir apparent. I was supposed to run it some day. But you know where I would have been if I’d stuck with the plan, Kurt, if I’d been a good boy and gone along with it? In New York? In a suit?

“Maybe even in jail.”

 _“What?”_ Kurt’s grip on Blaine’s hand tightened.

“My dad was accused of insider trading, about a year after I moved here. It damaged his reputation. The stock price plummeted. But time and good legal and PR teams can fix just about anything, right? He got off — negotiated a deal.”

“Did he do it?”

“I don’t really know. I never asked,” Blaine said. “It just hits a little too close to home. I mean — like father, like son, right?”

“You can’t compare the two, Blaine.”

Kurt pulled Blaine’s hand to his lips, and kissed his knuckles, one by one.

“Maybe not,” Blaine said, resting his head on Kurt’s shoulder. “But everything I have is based on the fact that I kind of tricked the family out my trust. And I can’t help but wonder where I’d be today if I’d gone along with their plans. I sure wouldn’t have been here.”

“You wouldn’t have a vineyard,” Kurt said. “Or this house.”

“Or you,” Blaine said.

“Is that why you don’t want Rhapsody to grow?”

“It’s growing,” Blaine said.

“You know what I mean.”

“Maybe. I know the big wineries never felt right to me. This is more my style. I’m comfortable, just like this.”

Blaine curled into Kurt’s side, the warmth of Kurt’s body and the dim glow of the Christmas tree lights serving to release the tension that had been building for weeks.

“I know it’s been a little rocky, Kurt, but I’m trying. This is new to me, you know. I’m probably going to screw things up from time to time.”

“It’s new to me, too. But I don’t run away from my problems,” Kurt said.

Blaine raised his head from Kurt’s shoulder, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, you do. Maybe not the same way I do, but you do.”

 

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my deepest gratitude to the triple threat, the thruplet, the Lone Three Hill of every chapter:iconicklaine, justusunicorns and randomactsofdouchebaggery, who combine to keep me honest, or at least reasonably well punctuated, each and every week. Thanks as well to buckeyegrrl, who makes everything that much prettier.


	12. Chapter 12

"I do  _not_  run away from my problems."

Kurt could feel himself tense, just a little, his defenses firing up - right up until the moment that the two hands reached over to cup his face, drawing him in and holding him still.

"Yes," Blaine said, his voice soft and deep, his lips a whisper away from Kurt's. "Yes, you do."

The tension dissipated as Blaine's lips touched his, but Kurt's instincts still told him to make his case, the lips currently migrating to the side of his mouth be damned.

"Do I need to remind you that I'm the talking half of this couple? And I  _know_  I drive you crazy with all the talk sometimes."

"You do," Blaine said. He kissed at Kurt's jaw.

"You were supposed to deny that."

"I will never deny that you drive me absolutely crazy." Blaine pressed a last peck to the tip of Kurt's nose. "I picked up groceries for dinner. Come keep me company while I cook, and we'll talk some more."

"Is this my make-up dinner?" Kurt asked.

"Something like that," Blaine said. He clambered off the floor and extended a hand to Kurt, pulling him up to his feet.

"And I take it it's supposed to precede make-up sex."

"Let's hope," Blaine said, and led Kurt by the hand to the kitchen.

****

Kurt sat at the kitchen island, arranging and rearranging the roses Blaine had brought home as a peace offering.

"And what is this menu that's going to make me forgive you for walking out on me today?" he said.

Blaine pulled items from the pantry and the refrigerator one by one: balsamic vinegar, arugula, fresh parmesan, butter, lemon, winter squash, and a package wrapped in white butcher's paper.

 "Unoaked Chardonnay or Blanc-de-Blancs?" Blaine asked.

"Bubbles," Kurt answered. "Definitely bubbles."

"Said with the authority of one of the world's great wine critics," Blaine said. "There's a bottle in the chiller."

Kurt found it quickly - a 2008 Schramsberg -made fast work of the gold foil and metal cage before twisting the cork out with a solid  _pop,_  his old sommelier's skills still well intact. He pulled two flutes from the cabinet, and poured, setting a glass by Blaine's workspace.

He breathed in the sparkling wine before taking a quick sip. "Hmm. Crisp -  apples and pineapple - as should be expected."

"Of course," Blaine said, playing along.

"But, wait. There we go. I'm picking up some toast - hazelnut." Kurt closed his eyes, and exhaled. "Well done, North Coast."

He may have been out of the business for a while, but Kurt Hummel-Anderson's skills at detecting the essence of a wine were untarnished by time.

"Well done, sir," Blaine said, clinking their glasses together and sipping. "Now, what would you say pairs well with a crisp sparkler?"

"A hard cheese, apples if serving as an appetizer, but with dinner? Shellfish, or something spicy and light."

"As luck would have it, we're having lemon pepper scallops," Blaine said.

"Luck has nothing to do with it. You really are trying to get back in my good graces."

Blaine washed the scallops and the vegetables, setting them aside, and pre-heated a sauté pan on the cook top with olive oil and cracked pepper.

Kurt was always dazzled by Blaine's culinary skills; not just the fact that he could cook - a bonus in Kurt's book - but the way he moved around the kitchen. He alternated swiftly from refrigerator to counter to cook top in series of fluid movements, no gesture wasted. He chopped vegetables with precision, and held the scallops as if holding a small bird he had just rescued. And more often than not, Kurt would find himself leaning against the kitchen counter, glass of wine in hand, simply taking in the scene.

"Could you plate the salad and the veggies?" Blaine said, rousting him. With a fiery flash, Blaine had tossed the scallops in the hot oil. He reached for his glass, took a sip, and then tipped the flute to the pan, adding a splash of wine to the mix. He finished with a generous squeeze of lemon and a dash of minced garlic, flipping the scallops until they turned opaque.

"Top off our glasses and dinner's served," he said, setting the plates and pulling a chair out for Kurt - a gentlemanly gesture that provided assurance that he was still working to earn his husband's forgiveness. Kurt decided that Blaine could keep trying, if only for a little while longer.

And while the conversation had at first been forced, Blaine had become downright chatty since opening up about his family history, more open and confident than Kurt had seen him in months.

"This whole thing about confronting conflict -you zeroed in on that so easily that it kind of caught me off-balance," Blaine said. "I wasn't used to getting called out on that, except for maybe by my brother, and I usually just tune him out.

"But Kurt, I get it. It took a while to get here, but I think I understand now, and I promise you, I'm going to make the effort. I'm going to let you know what's on my mind, even if I'm not comfortable talking about it. I'm going to make the effort for you - not necessarily for anyone else, but for you... yes."

"You really  _should_  be doing this for yourself," Kurt said, sipping at his wine.

"I am. But what's been happening here affects us both, and it isn't fixed just because I'm opening up. When I said that I'm not the only one here who runs away from their problems, I wasn't just talking. You do it, too - maybe in a different way, but you run away, too."

"I love you, Blaine, but you are  _so_  full of shit," Kurt said, raising his glass in a mock salute.

"Kurt, I'm serious. You know how Santana loves to talk about  _truth time_? Well, here's mine: Talking about your problems is one thing, but acting on them is something else entirely."

The flirty undercurrent to the criticism was gone. Kurt could tell that as far as Blaine was concerned, this was no joke.

"Kurt, why do you think I kept asking you if you were happy? Because you obviously weren't; how could you be? You were all about your job when I met you. But you gave that up. You gave it up for me, and lately you seem like you're a little... lost. I don't want to be the reason that you're unhappy."

"You could never be the reason I'm unhappy," Kurt said. "Except maybe today, when you seriously pissed me off."

Blaine bit his lip, and stirred the vegetables around his plate.

"I  _am_ sorry about that, Kurt. Really."

"I believe you. I just wish you would tell me where you went."

"You talked to Santana. You probably already know most of it," he said.

"Not exactly. She really just seemed to be checking in on you. She wondered if you got home, and whether you ever showered."

Kurt raised a judgmental eyebrow. Blaine rolled his eyes in return. "After dinner, I promise."

He told Kurt about how he froze up, frustrated, and stormed out of the house without any real goal or direction, aimed like a homing beacon to Sonoma Square. He parked himself at a bakery and ordered a coffee, only to let it grow cold until Santana came along.

"I have to give her credit," he said. "She got me out of my funk."

"By slapping you?"

"Uh, kind of. She told you?"

"No, I pretty much guessed that one."

"She told me I was an idiot and hit me up to join the board of the Wine Bureau again - which you know I'll never do."

"Of course."

"But she made a case, and it got me thinking..."

"Oh no..."

"Kurt,  _you_  should run for president of the Wine Bureau."

"Excuse me?"

"You should do it, Kurt. Santana doesn't need me. What she really wants is someone to represent the brand, and who better than you?"

"Maybe the owner? The winemaker?" Kurt said.

"No. I'd be lousy at it - and I'd  _hate_ it," Blaine said. "I help out plenty around the valley - you and Santana both know that. But it's a private thing. And it's fine to belong to the Bureau, but I don't want to be some frontman. You know that's not me - but it  _is_ you. You're great in front of people, and you're as much a part of Rhapsody as I am."

Kurt brought his elbow to the table so he could cradle his temple in his hand. Despite marriage, despite helping with the business, this was the first time that Kurt had thought of himself as a partner in Rhapsody, or that Blaine had described him as such.

"It's not really a job. It's more symbolic. But let's face it - you're a lot better giving speeches than I am," Blaine said.

"And Santana's on board with this?"

"Once we talked it through, yes. In fact, I don't think she wants me anywhere near that Board room any more."

"Smart woman," Kurt said.

"So you'll think about it?"

Blaine had a point. He was a leader in his own way. Kurt had seen it countless times since they first met - rallying local vintners to submit their top vintages for the  _Taste_ hallenge, convincing them to trust Kurt, helping them with challenging fermentation cycles and unpredictable harvests.

But Blaine's leadership style was both muted and carefully cultivated. Through all of it, Kurt had never seen him draw attention to himself.

That was Kurt's specialty, and always had been.

Kurt nodded.

"Yeah. I can see myself doing that. I'll call her tomorrow."

Blaine grinned. He piled vegetables on to his fork, finally taking a hearty bite.

"Okay, so you spent all morning talking to Santana, but what about the rest of the day?"

Blaine paused, mid-chew, then took his time swallowing.

"I had to go over to St. Helena," he said, returning to a pattern of swirling vegetables around his plate.

A moment of silent recognition passed. Kurt hoped he was wrong.

"Where were you, Blaine?" he asked, his voice crisp.

Blaine set his fork down and locked eyes with Kurt.

"I went over to Dalton."

"You did  _what_?"

Blaine reached for his hand, tangling their fingers together.

"I needed to talk to Sebastian."

"...words I never expected to come out of your mouth."

"I told you he visited the tasting room down on the square while you were away."

"Something I'm still coming to grips with," Kurt said.

"He was looking for you and, at least by Sebastian's standards, was perfectly well-behaved. He had that crazy idea about you working for Dalton..."

"Something that will never happen..."

"I know, and especially if you're going to be representing the Sonoma Wine Bureau," Blaine said. "But I got thinking that Sebastian might be on to something. 

Blaine adjusted his chair, angling himself closer to Kurt.

"I was sitting there at the café this morning wondering how we move forward, that we'd hit this roadblock that we just needed to navigate. We love each other - I don't think that's ever been in question. But it's been... difficult... adjusting. You've had this gap in your professional life, and I  _know_  how much your work means to you. This alone isn't enough for you, Kurt. And you feeling less than whole isn't enough for me. Does that make any sense at all?"

Kurt squinted, and gazed down to their clasped hands. He nodded.

"I really didn't want you going back to work for Quinn, but your talent is wasted if you're just biding time around here. And eventually, I think you'd resent me if you didn't get back to work."

"That's not true..."

"It is, Kurt, and that's okay. Because I know that you're not you if you're not doing what you love. You wouldn't be the man I fell in love with, just like I wouldn't be me if I suddenly gave up winemaking."

"You'd better not."

"So I got thinking about what Sebastian told me, about how he wanted to box out competition with some new publication."

"I repeat, I am  _not_ going to work for Sebastian Smythe," Kurt said.

"And I wouldn't ask you to, but I think there's another option, and I wanted to discuss it with him. I needed to see if it was feasible before I talked to you about it."

"So you planned my future without talking to me?"

"Kind of like you making a decision about Quinn's offer without telling me? If so, then yes."

Kurt glared across the table for a moment. Blaine may be right - Kurt knew exactly how anxious he had been about Quinn's offer, but nonetheless took his time rejecting the offer. But just because his husband had a point didn't mean Kurt had to be happy about it.

"Kurt?" Blaine said. "Just hear me out."

 ****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to the terrific trio that signed on to read a short five or six chapter fic, and stayed on even after it had doubled in size and was quite apparent that I was either terribly wrong or just a lousy liar about this thing: iconicklaine, randomactsofdouchebaggery and justusunicorns. You three are nearly free.
> 
> Thanks as always also to the talented buckeyegrrl for this lovely cover. She's seen my attempts at art, so this could just be self-preservation.
> 
> For those of you who prompted this, and asked a question I've yet to address, you're about to get your answer. Thanks for hanging in there as I went for this unmapped, unscripted little trip.


	13. Chapter 13

_December 24th_

Blaine knocked softly on the door to the guesthouse - though he always considered that term a bit of an overstatement. It was really more of a studio apartment built into the side of the house, a place where Cooper stayed or the occasional over-indulgent guest slept one off, and where Kurt had created an impromptu office space.

"Kurt? Are you still in here?"

He pushed the door open and peeked inside. Kurt - elbows deep in notepads, sketches and electronics - sat on the couch, computer in his lap, glasses pushed down his nose, oblivious to the intrusion.

"Kurt? It's getting late."

Kurt turned his head with a gasp, startled by Blaine's voice.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to interrupt, but it's getting late, and you've been at this for hours."

"And it's nearly Christmas," Kurt said.

"And it's nearly Christmas," Blaine echoed. "Any chance you'd consider wrapping up for the night?"

Kurt pulled his glasses off, and closed his laptop.

"Sorry about that," he said, standing and stretching his arms upwards, easing a kink from his spine. "And you've been getting the house ready for tomorrow all this time?"

"There wasn't that much to do," Blaine said. He surveyed the mess of the guest room, the hurricane gust of activity that was Kurt in business mode, leaving a path of destruction in its wake. "We may want to close this area off tomorrow."

They hadn't originally planned to have guests over for the holiday dinner. It was their first Christmas together, but one thing led to another and soon they were planning dinner for nine.

It was only proper that they invite Blaine's former vineyard manager Diego and his family over. They had, after all, welcomed a lonely and hung over Blaine into their home for Christmas the year before. The households had always been close, and Diego's father took great delight at inspecting the status of Rhapsody's vines.

It would also be their first chance to meet Diego's fiancée, a UC Davis undergrad at the top of her class in agronomy.

The invitation to Santana had been inevitable. She had remained defiantly alone, not quite ready to find someone new, and unwilling to fight congested freeways to spend the holidays with her family, now scattered across the state.

"Is this going to be some kind of extravaganza? Because I have a fine tradition of movies and Chinese food..."

It would be nothing fancy, Kurt had assured her. Blaine had planned a simple but traditional Christmas dinner. There would be wine, and pie, and maybe some music.

"If you're expecting me to bring a dish, fair warning," she said, a hint of menace to her voice.

Kurt had assured her that she could be in charge of after-dinner drinks, an area of expertise for her.

Two guests later - a new neighbor with no nearby relatives and Patty, their confidante and favorite bartender - and the table was full.

Kurt looked at Blaine, then back at the mess he had created, and shrugged.

"I'll clean it in the morning. We may be needing this space tomorrow," he said. He moved to the doorway and wrapped his arms around Blaine's waist, pulling him close.

"I'd say you have a pretty good excuse," Blaine said, sharing a chaste kiss.

He had scarcely seen his husband lately. Kurt had been a man on a mission, and Blaine had learned early on that when Kurt had a goal in mind, it was best to get out of the way. He also realized that Kurt probably thought the same of him.

It had started with  _The Conversation_ , as they had come to describe the night that turned everything on its ear, setting a new course for both their personal and professional lives.

Once Blaine had found his voice in the marriage, he had plenty to say: that Kurt needed to carve out a career - both for Kurt's happiness and his own; that he wanted to help him pursue it; that maybe he had overstepped, but he had done a little research on Kurt's behalf; that he meant well; that is was an action born of love.

It hadn't gone well at first, the realization that Blaine had discussed Kurt's future with Sebastian Smythe, of all people. But, like Kurt, Blaine could be determined, pragmatic, and stubborn.

It had been scarcely two weeks, but the day that changed everything already felt like a distant memory. Blaine, grim and in need of a shower, had stewed over a cold cup of coffee until Santana slapped him out of his funk. The idea that had sparked another idea, an inspiration, led to a possible solution to the issue that had vexed him for months.

He had cut the conversation with Santana short, and made a beeline to St. Helena. He had arrived before the day's ebb and flow of tourists and, it had seemed, before Dalton's chief winemaker. A tasting room assistant recognized him as soon as he entered the winery. She was polite, though clearly surprised when she informed Blaine that Dalton's chief winemaker sometimes didn't make an appearance until well after 10 a.m. now that the harvest season had passed.

Blaine had waited in his truck, bobbing his head to a classic rock station, watching limousines and tour buses come and go for nearly an hour.

"If you're going to work on your tan in our parking lot, you could at least take off your shirt and give us a show," a voice had bellowed behind him. "Oh, and keep it downwind, would ya?"

The voice was as familiar as it was suggestive.

"I've been waiting for you," Blaine said.

"I've been waiting  _years_ to hear you say that," Sebastian laughed.

Two hours later, they had parted with a handshake and a smile that hadn't felt entirely forced, a plan in the works that could accomplish Sebastian's goals of blocking out his competitor while opening up an opportunity for someone with just enough talent, ambition and support to take advantage of it.

****

Selling Sebastian on his idea had been one thing. Convincing Kurt that a plan hatched with someone he had always considered a threat was something else entirely.

That it was delivered in the height of  _The Conversation_ , in the midst of their effort to resolve bubbling undercurrent of conflict, made it that much more difficult.

Kurt had nearly exploded when Blaine told him where he had gone, and why.

"What in the world were you thinking? After everything? After the  _Sebastian of it all_ , what would make you think you should be discussing us - or me - with him?"

"I know how it sounds..."

"It sounds like you lost your mind."

"Kurt? Just hear me out," Blaine had pled. "It'll all make sense, I swear."

While Blaine hadn't originally taken Sebastian's proposition that Kurt work for Dalton seriously, the thought stuck in his head:  _Kurt needs to work; Kurt needs to write again._

But he could not work for a Napa winery while leading the Sonoma Wine Bureau, and despite his détente with his former lover, Blaine had not trusted Sebastian enough to ever encourage Kurt to go into business with him.

But the core of Sebastian's idea was solid - that Kurt should start anew, trade on his skill and celebrity in the wine field to start a business that would leave him beholden to no one but himself and his readers and, with any luck, his advertisers.

Kurt had started down that path, briefly, after leaving  _Taste_ Magazine, but had shifted his attention to the winery, the vineyard, and the marriage.

It was time for him to refocus on his own career, Blaine said.

"So you want me to start the blog back up? That's the big career plan?"

"That's only part of it, Kurt. This is about Kurt Hummel-Anderson, Inc. You have so much knowledge, and so much respect out there. Readers will follow you, Kurt. It could be a blog, sure. Or a magazine..."

"I don't want to deal with printers..."

Blaine had seen Kurt weighing the possibilities, his expression taking on a distant look of deep consideration.

"Then it could be a digital publication, or you could go syndicated. There's still a market for that, right?"

Kurt nodded.

"There are podcasts, webcasts. Have you seen that show about wine country living?"

"Oh please, it's awful," Kurt said.

"That's my point. Some people from out of town come up here with a camera, take some pretty pictures and then sell a show that's more about wine country real estate than the wine country itself. There are always options when the material's good, Kurt - and when you know what you're doing."

The slow nod of Kurt's head had stopped.

"So what did Sebastian have to do with this?"

"This idea started with him. I didn't want him involved, but I didn't want him thinking I'd stolen it, either. So I guess I sort of sought his blessing."

"His blessing?" Kurt had sounded incredulous.

"He only wanted to start a regional magazine to box out a competitor. I asked him if a new independent effort would have the same effect."

"I take it he said yes?"

Blaine grinned. "He offered to be your first advertiser."

"There would be a lot to work out," Kurt said. "I'll think about it."

****

The next two weeks were a blur of research, meetings and phone calls. Kurt finally had the beginnings of a plan, or many of them, and he dove into the work, as if starting the next phase of his professional life couldn't start soon enough.

First, he met with Santana.

If it was Rhapsody she wanted at the helm of the Bureau, then she could have it - with conditions.

Kurt would agree to run for president of the association, but with the caveat that it take on a new role representing the county's boutique winemakers.

"If I'm going to do this, then my candidacy will have a platform," he said.

Santana crinkled her brow and gave his shoes a hard look.

"A political platform," Kurt said, "a business proposition."

"The tasting room in that old department store off the square was supposed to promote the region's small wineries. So is the Bureau. So maybe the Bureau should run it," he said.

He said that he would seek to have the Bureau expand its office, renting the space next door that became available when a tchotchke store closed.

"Let's get rid of that dump the tasting room's currently in and move it where it belongs. The bureau would be doing what it should be doing - promoting its members. It would give the bureau more caché with the public and the wineries."

Santana stared at him for a moment, soaking it in, then rolling her eyes.

"Sometimes, you and that husband of yours are more trouble than you're worth."

"That's my deal. Take it or leave it," Kurt said.

Santana huffed out a laugh.

"You're the only candidate. What choice do I have? Hell, they may name you  _Generalissimo for Life._ "

The next meeting caused him heartburn.

He had put it off long enough, really. Though Kurt had hinted strongly that he would not accept Quinn's job offer, he had never turned her down outright. And now, he had to tell her why.

They had worked together for years, been friends even longer, and Kurt knew that his news could more than strain that relationship.

It could end it, unless he found a constructive out.

"Quinn, I decided that it was time to downsize," he said. "I want to devote more time to my home, and bouncing back and forth between California and New York can't be part of that equation."

He told her, in less-than-specific terms, about his career plans. Before she could respond, he added a caveat.

"I'm also going syndicated, Quinn.  And if you'd like,  _Taste_ can have first shot at my columns."

He outlined his idea: that his review column be syndicated out of  _Taste_ , appearing in newspapers and other periodicals only after his longtime home had first crack at it - for a price reflective of the exclusivity - but he would not consider another staff position with the magazine.

"It's your call, Quinn. I won't come back on staff, but  _Taste_ can still run my column, rather than have me as a competitor."

She didn't agree immediately, but it didn't take long to get her on board, either.

The next call, to Cooper, was a videoconference - at Cooper's insistence.

"This is as much Blaine's request as yours. Tell him to get his ass out of that bean patch and join us on Skype."

"It's a vineyard, Cooper."

"Whatever."

Kurt knew it wouldn't take much to get Cooper to  _yes_ \- Cooper was all about  _yes_ -but he knew that they could use his expertise to get it launched, noticed and solidified. And of course, Kurt had a plan, because he knew that if he went into business with Cooper Anderson, then Blaine would be in business with him as well. And in Kurt's mind, a bridge to the family was a bridge, even if it was made of baling wire and spit.

The rest of it was relatively simple - extensive and time-consuming, yes, but really just a matter of research and contacts and planning. Kurt touched base with graphic artists and web designers he had come to know from his time at  _Taste_ , then made plans to call in favors based on good will and good business sense from companies likely to see an opportunity in investing in Kurt Hummel-Anderson, Version 2.0.

He also built a plan to pitch his business to investors, or to a bank willing to float a business line of credit.

There were still months of planning needed before he could consider himself open for business, but Kurt had a firm sense of direction in place, so long as he could dig himself out from under the paperwork he had piled up.

It was one of these moments that Blaine walked in on late Christmas Eve. It was nearly 10 p.m., and Kurt had scarcely poked his head out from the cave he had created in the guest quarters since late afternoon.

"We'll clean it tomorrow, Kurt. Take a break with me," he said. "It's our first real Christmas together, you know."

"We were together last year."

"Only technically. You went home. I got drunk. We broke up when you came back - we were together by a thread. I'd rather count married years, anyway."

They collapsed on the couch together. Kurt leaned back into Blaine's chest, tucking his head on to Blaine's shoulder.

"I like that plan," Kurt said. "Merry Christmas, husband."

"Merry Christmas. What do you say about opening one gift tonight, before everyone comes over tomorrow?"

"Just as I'm getting comfortable?"

"Well, we don't  _have_ to..."

Kurt jumped up from the couch, and extended a hand to pull Blaine to his feet.

"Just one," he said. "The big one."

Kurt sat on the floor in front of the tree while Blaine reached through the gifts toward the back, where a large package wrapped in crimson and gold paper sat apart from the others. It was decorated with a large gold silk ribbon and a gift card.

"For you," he said, setting the box on the floor and sitting alongside Kurt. "Merry Christmas, Kurt."

Kurt Hummel-Anderson did not believe in recycling giftwrap. Nor did he believe in wasting time when it came to opening gifts. He tore into the paper.

"Card first," Blaine said, earning a mock scowl.

Kurt opened the gilded envelope and pulled out the card, an old Currier and Ives winter print. Inside, Blaine had written a quote.

             _"At the typewriter, you find out who you are."_

_\- Tom Robbins_

_I know who I am. I am yours, forever more._

_B._

Blaine was typically a man of few words, but he measured and chose them carefully. And with Kurt, he spoke from the heart.

Kurt opened the box, and began to tear away at sheet after sheet of gold tissue to reveal what looked like a small, old leather suitcase.

He looked up at Blaine, confused.

"Open it," Blaine said.

Kurt lifted the case from the box, and slid the two metal latches out to open its lid. Inside sat a pristine antique typewriter, a sheet of paper already in its roller.

"It's a 1941 Royal Quiet Deluxe," Blaine said. "The Cadillac of manual typewriters, and a favorite model of Hemingway."

"Blaine, it's beautiful, but what made you think...?"

"It's a writer's typewriter, Kurt. A model used by some of the greats. I'd seen it in a thrift store, then did a little research..."

"You've been doing a lot of that lately..."

Blaine laughed, his trademark self-conscious chuckle-and-look away move that could move Kurt to tears.

"I love it," Kurt said, leaning in for a kiss. "Tell me more."

"When I found out what it was, I went down and bought it and had this typewriter repair guy in the city restore it. Did you know there's a website that lists the typewriters of famous authors? So I thought, ‘Kurt deserves an author's typewriter, even if he is going all-digital.' "

Kurt reached over to look at the paper inserted into the roller. It had doubled over on itself inside of the case, but as he flipped it upright, he could see that Blaine had tested the vintage machine.

             _For my husband, my confidante, my love_

_... And my business partner, if he'll have me._

"What does that mean?" Kurt said.

Blaine looked away and smiled, then met Kurt's eyes.

"I know you're trying to do this all yourself, and I respect it, I do. But I don't want you to have to go securing a loan to get your business off the ground," Blaine said.

"It takes money to start a business, Blaine."

"We have money - plenty of money. And I'd like to invest it in you."

"That's  _your_ money, Blaine. You need it for vineyard expansion," Kurt said.

"First of all, it's  _our_ money. We're married, remember? What's mine is yours. And even if you think of it as my money, then I should be able to invest where I want to, right? We're just fine. The winery's doing well, and I want to be your partner - your  _silent_ partner - if you'll have me."

"So  _Vino Veritas_ becomes a part of Rhapsody, Inc.?"

"That's the name?" Blaine asked.

"A working title. We'll see."

"Fair enough," Blaine said. "And no, I think they need to stay separate businesses, but I'm thinking we can create a corporate umbrella for all the future Hummel-Anderson ventures."

"Hummel-Anderson Inc.?" Kurt asked.

"Something like that, but I was thinking something along the lines of the Rhapsody names," Blaine replied. "Something like Duet."

Kurt tried names on for size:  _Duet Inc., Duet LLC, Duet Holding Corp._

"I'll leave that to you," Blaine said, pointing a finger to his chest. "Remember,  _Silent partner._ "

He leaned over, reaching for Kurt's cheek, and pulled him close. They kissed, a relaxed, familiar kiss, the likes of which they would share countless times for years to come.

Blaine moved to deepen it, to taste and touch, but Kurt broke away with a wink and crawled under the tree. He emerged with a shimmery copper rectangular box that had been hidden under several smaller gifts.

"For me?" Blaine said. He had mischief in his tone and the lights of the Christmas tree reflected in his eyes.

"For you. I've been holding onto it for a while."

Blaine started to weigh and shake the package, a childhood habit he'd never grown out of, when Kurt stopped him.

"I wouldn't advise that," he said.

Blaine raised an eyebrow, and set out to open the package, taking care not to rip the delicate metallic paper.

"Why would you do that?" Kurt said. "Tear it open."

"I like to savor every moment," Blaine said. "Besides, I like the paper."

Inside the box, Blaine found a wooden case, the type used to package and ship gift bottle of wine. He stopped, a look of confusion on his face.

He slid the cover open to find a bottle of dark red wine. It was embellished with a black and gold label covered with a signature written in gold Sharpie pen:  _Blaine Anderson,_  right alongside the  _Sotto Voce_ logo scrawl.

Blaine bit his lip, and stared at the box.

"Now, before you go asking why I would give you a bottle of your own wine..."

"The auction," Blaine interrupted, silencing him. "You were the phone bidder at the charity auction that first year."

Kurt remembered every detail.  _Taste_ had scheduled the charity dinner and auction one week before its inaugural Challenge between Napa and Sonoma. Fueled by a stash of cash intended to raise the bids on Napa wines, the bidding on Blaine's competitors from Napa had been heated, as was Kurt's temper. He let the auctioneer know that an anonymous bidder had been in contact, and would bid by phone for the bottle of  _Sotto Voce_.

Then he left the room, cell phone tucked discreetly in his jacket pocket.

By the time the bidding was over, Kurt had paid close to ten times the retail value of the wine, and Blaine's celebrity among wine enthusiasts was cemented.

"You knew."

"I saw it in your nightstand drawer back at your hotel," Blaine said.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Blaine smiled.

"I didn't talk a lot back then. Besides, you didn't tell me you'd bought it, either. I figured there must be a reason why."

"You deserved it. I hated watching those other bottles get bid up because someone had taken up a collection. You had the best wine, and I wanted you to get credit for it." 

Blaine picked the bottle up from the case and turned it over in his hands.

"And I wanted to get in your pants."

Blaine burst out in laughter, falling down from his spot on the floor to stretch out, pulling Kurt along with him. 

"Always the romantic."

"Just goal-oriented," Kurt said, rolling on top of Blaine, propping his chin up with his hands.

"So you spent - what was it, $1,700? You spent all that as part of a plan to get lucky?" Blaine said, shaking his head. "I should tell you: I was a sure thing."

Kurt bracketed Blaine's face with his hands, and angled his face to dot the line of his jaw with firm kisses.

"I can't believe you knew the whole time, and never said anything," Kurt said.

"I thought that was the problem with me all along. You stayed mum, too, you know."

"I was going to give it to you for Christmas last year, but..."

Kurt didn't need to finish the sentence. The Christmas vacation that ended in their brief break-up was a subject neither cared to bring up again.

"It won't happen again," Kurt said.

Blaine wrapped his arms around Kurt's waist, pulling him close. He rested his chin on Kurt's shoulder to whisper in his ear.

"You can't promise that. Neither can I," he said, punctuating the sentence by placing his lips to Kurt's ear lobe.

They stayed like that for several minutes, sharing soft kisses and gentle touches, in no rush to move on.

"The  _Sotto Voce,_ should I open it?" Kurt asked.

"Some day, not right now. Let's save it for a while."

"For our anniversary?" Kurt asked, smiling.

"No. I have another idea for that, a tradition to start," Blaine said.

"Do tell."

"The  _Appoggiatura,_ " Blaine said. "The first vintage. I want it to be our anniversary wine. We can sell the later vintages, but I'd like those first bottles to be ours, every year."

Kurt had suspected that Blaine would never sell that first wine that Blaine had dedicated to him, but he had underestimated the sentiment Blaine had attached to the rich, delicate red.

He had made the wine to last, to age well, to live in their cellar for years to come. And based on his plan, Blaine must have fully expected to celebrate a golden wedding anniversary some day.

"You think we'll make it that long?" Kurt said.

Blaine rested their cheeks together, and closed his eyes.

"Without a doubt."

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What started as a plan for a 1500-word ficlet has now concluded as a free-flowing, largely unplanned novella. Because of how I wrote this — without an advance plan, following where the story led — I can't help but feel that I have given you only a draft of this story, so I am deeply grateful for all of you who have been reading along.
> 
> Someday, I may come back to organize and clean it up. It seems I have a hard time saying goodbye to these two.
> 
> My continued thanks to Buckeyegrrl, who created such lovely cover art, and to three magical people who dropped everything to try to sort out me free form prose each week: iconicklaine, justusunicorns and randomactsofdouchebaggery. You three save me from myself on the regular, and I am forever grateful.
> 
> In Vino Veritas,
> 
> Girlie


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